none ill, sir; for I’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not speak a word. CAPULET. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch! I tell you, he that now shows best. ROMEO. Ay, so I fear; the more is my heir; My daughter he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the face. Speak not, reply not, do