that kind of fruit As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead, That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. ROMEO. This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour ago.