ROMEO: Therefore, farewell. I see you know me not.
TYBALT: Boy, your words can't excuse the harm you've done to me. Turn and draw your sword.
ROMEO: I protest—I've done you no harm. I love you better than you can possibly know. And with this, good Capulet—a name I love like my own—be satisfied.
MERCUTIO: Damn your vile submission, Romeo! A sword thrust will carry it away!
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you fight me?
TYBALT: What do you want from me?
MERCUTIO: Good King of Cats, nothing more than one of your nine lives. And then perhaps I will beat the final eight out of you. Will you pluck your sword from its sheath? Hurry, or my sword will be against your ears before it's out!
TYBALT: I'll fight you!
ROMEO: Noble Mercutio, put your sword away!
MERCUTIO: Come, sir...your passado.