packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scatter’d, to make you dance. ROMEO. Not mad, but bound more than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little prating thing,—O, there is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, ‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their swords._] Enter Tybalt. TYBALT. What, art thou hurt? MERCUTIO. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough. Where