Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe. A villain, that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Fetch me my rapier, boy.— What, dares the slave Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
... In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d; Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, Till the prince came, who parted either part.
Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it.
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Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
That coach scorns students who don’t have natural ability.