little talk’d of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then Tybalt fled. But by and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me so, you do not solicit donations in locations where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the parties of suspicion. FRIAR LAWRENCE.