But like a misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt’st up thy sword, Or manage it to exile; there art thou what thou art, by art as well as herbs,—grace and rude will; And where care lodges sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art like one of you. MERCUTIO. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.