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GREGORY:
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No.
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SAMPSON:
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No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I
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bite my thumb, sir.
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GREGORY:
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Do you quarrel, sir?
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ABRAHAM:
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Quarrel sir! no, sir.
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SAMPSON:
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If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
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ABRAHAM:
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No better.
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SAMPSON:
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Well, sir.
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GREGORY:
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Say 'better:' here comes one of my master's kinsmen.
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SAMPSON:
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Yes, better, sir.
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ABRAHAM:
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You lie.
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SAMPSON:
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Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
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BENVOLIO:
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Part, fools!
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Put up your swords; you know not what you do.
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TYBALT:
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What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
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Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
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BENVOLIO:
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I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
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Or manage it to part these men with me.
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TYBALT:
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What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,
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As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
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Have at thee, coward!
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First Citizen:
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Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
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Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
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CAPULET:
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What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
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LADY CAPULET:
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A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?
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CAPULET:
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My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
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And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
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MONTAGUE:
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Thou villain Capulet,--Hold me not, let me go.
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LADY MONTAGUE:
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Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.
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PRINCE:
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Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
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Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,--
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Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,
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That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
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With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
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On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
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Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,
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And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
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Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
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By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
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Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,
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And made Verona's ancient citizens
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Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
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To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
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Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:
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If ever you disturb our streets again,
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Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
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For this time, all the rest depart away:
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You Capulet; shall go along with me:
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And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
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To know our further pleasure in this case,
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To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
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Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
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MONTAGUE:
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Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
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Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
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