Dearest Tybalt,
Thy mother spoke of ye last night warning me of the swordsmanship you posses ,but, I told the ol' goose that tis not I she should worry about ,but tis her since the neighbors shall think murderous actions were taking place. Not to worry though my dear Cat Prince, she is fine, oh fine indeed.
But to the topic of the gentle lover that is Romeo. The boy cannot fight for the only weapon he may be familiar with tis the simple poison arrow always being thrust upon his foolish heart. Ay, tis true, the heart is not the only organ of love the boy is using. The poor women of your house Sir! All so weak! But thou would know not of such pleasure of weak women, would ye sir? A maiden's head you may not claim with your skills of the sword! Thou art a miserable wretch who finds life to be joyless! And due to this misfortune of yours, thou hast found it necessary to ruin all joy belonging to others! Does thou not have lovely maidens at your feet? Does thou not know the pleasure of a lady? Nothing to ease tensions wound like a spring? Thou does not deserve to hear more of I. My words shalt bring though too much enjoyment that thou does not deserve to feel.
Farewell,
Mercutio,
