Away, you love me
not to urge me
thus,
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every
servile
groom feasts at my wrongs,
And in their rustic
gambols proudly
say
Benvolio's head was graced
with horns to day?
O, may these eyelids
never close again
Till with my sword I have that conjuror
slain.
If you will aid me in this
enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and
be resolute.
If not, depart.
Here will Benvolio die,
But Faustus' death shall quit my
infamy.