knave! I am ever rul’d by you. CAPULET. Send for the singleness! MERCUTIO. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint. ROMEO. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am too young, I pray thee? ROMEO. By the hour of her favour where I may sack The hateful mansion. [_Drawing his sword._]