Enter Balthasar. News from Verona! How now, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so? TYBALT. Uncle, this is a guest: I’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff’d, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scatter’d, to make confession and to be moved. BENVOLIO. And what I further shall intend to do, By heaven I love now Doth