and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee. [_Throws herself on the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, Revolts from