Tybalt, here slain, whom romeos hand did slay! Romeo that spoke him fair, bid him bethink how nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal you’re high displeasure; all this, uttered with gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bowed, could not take truce with the unruly spleen of tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts with piercing steel at bold mercurials breast, who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, and, with a martial scorn, wit one hand beats cold death aside, and with the other sends it back to tybalt, who’s dexterity retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, “hold, friends! friends, part!” and swifter than his tongue, his agile arm beats down their fatal points, and twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm an envious thrust from tybalt fled; but by and by comes back to romeo, who had but newly entertained revenge, and to’t they go like lightning, for, ere i could draw to part them, was stout tybalt slain; and as he fell, did romeo turn and fly. this is the truth, or let benvolio die.