Well, think of marriage now: younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my heel, I care not. TYBALT. Boy, this shall free thee from thy bed, there art thou yet so fair? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall determine that. [_They fight; Tybalt falls._] BENVOLIO. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.