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BOMEO AND JULIET. 31 

And bakes the elf-locks in fonl sluttish hairs, 
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes. 
This is she — 

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 our- 
selves ; 
Supper is done, and we shall come too late. 

Romeo. I fear, too early ; for my mind misgives 
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, 
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date 
With this night's revels, and expire the term 
Of a despised life clos'd in my breast 
By some vile forfeit of untimely death. 
But He that hath the steerage of my course 
Direct my sail ! — On, lusty gentlemen. 

Benvolio. Strike, drum. \_^Exeunt.