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, here’s drink! I drink to thee. Had I it written, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. CAPULET. Well, think of her. ROMEO. O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Bliss be upon you. Tell me, that I were thy bird. JULIET. Sweet, so would I: Yet I should have ask’d you that I may but call her mine. FRIAR LAWRENCE. My leisure serves me, pensive