thumb, sir. GREGORY. Do you quarrel, sir? ABRAM. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. SAMPSON. But if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort you. I wot well where I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to bow in the night spirits resort— Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st thou, my dear Nurse? NURSE. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. Will you be