ROMEO
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
MERCUTIO
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
BENVOLIO
This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
July 26, 2008 at 2:03 am |
[...] of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy” (1.4.95-103); “She speaks yet she says nothing what of that?” (2.2.10-13); “look to hear [...]