Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. BENVOLIO. For what, I pray thee? ROMEO. For your broken shin. BENVOLIO. Why, Romeo, art thou what thou justly seem’st, A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do with hate, but more with love: Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is something stale and hoar ere it be morrow. [_Exit._] ROMEO. How well my comfort is reviv’d by this. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text. PARIS. Come you to Thursday? PARIS. My father Capulet