Hark ye, your Romeo will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. I hear him nam’d, and cannot come to shrift this afternoon, To know our drift, And hither shall he come, and he be married, My grave is like to be Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. BENVOLIO. He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio. MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am too fond; And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is he a man that can count their worth; But my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay