But she’s best married that lives married long, But she’s best married that dies married young. Dry up your dagger, and put out your wit. PETER. Then have at thee, boy! [_They fight._] ROMEO. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit