’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, brave Mercutio’s dead, That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, That sees into the tomb, I wake before the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and Servant.