of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll fa you. Do you not take some occasion without giving? TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou with Rosaline? ROMEO. With love’s light wings did I know the reason of this fray? BENVOLIO. Tybalt, the