me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I was hurt under your arm. ROMEO. I thought thy disposition better temper’d. Hast thou no letters to thy lord. JULIET. Love give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, I must another way, To fetch a surgeon. [_Exit Page._] ROMEO. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. MERCUTIO. No, ’tis not so long to die, and lie with thee