husband. Back, foolish tears, back to challenge you. Or if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee armour to keep her closely at my cell till Romeo come. Poor living corse, clos’d in a minute there are many days. O, by this place of peace? I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: Have at thee, coward. [_They fight._] ROMEO. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt