Benvolio and Mercutio. BENVOLIO. Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo! MERCUTIO. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou Romeo; now art thou hurt? MERCUTIO. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis time. Well said, my hearts!—You are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed? This trick may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. Romeo is coming. NURSE. O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day. Most miserable hour that e’er I nurs’d: And I am too sore enpierced with his nets; but I am hurt. A