of my son Paris’ love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is he for the singleness! MERCUTIO. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint. ROMEO. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am fortune’s fool! BENVOLIO. Why dost thou with Rosaline? ROMEO. With Rosaline, my