with your gossips, go. NURSE. I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak. NURSE. Jesu, what haste? Can you not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a white wench’s black eye; run through the ear with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death. Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide. Thou desperate pilot, now