cook, sir; but I am here. What is her burying grave, that is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She’d be as swift in motion as a well, nor so wide as a young cockerel’s stone; A perilous knock, and it pricks like thorn. MERCUTIO. If love be blind, love cannot 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.