Romeo's POV
I went to seek advice from my good friend, Mercutio.
"I am in love with Juliet, but I'm not sure she loves me back," I told him.
"Young hearts run free. Never be caught up, caught up like Rosaline and thee. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance," said Mercutio.
Rosaline was his ex-lover.
"Not I, Not I believe me: you have dancing shoes With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead," I said humbly.
"You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound," said Mercutio.
"Under love's heavy burden do I sink. I do not know what to think," I said.
"Too great oppression for a tender thing like you," said Mercutio.
"Am I a tender thing? Am I too selfish, Too cowardly, too naive, and I prick like a thorn in your rear end."
"If you be rude with her, she'll be rude with you. Prick you for pricking, and she beats you down," said Mercutio.
"Every man betake him to his legs," said Benvolio.
"But 'tis no wit to go," I said,
"Why, may one ask?" said Mercutio.
"I dream'd a dream this morning," I told him.
"And so did I," he said.
"Well, what was yours?" I asked.
"That dreamers often lie."
"In bed asleep, while they do dream things true."
"O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Over men's noses as they lie asleep; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat, And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage: This is she-This is she!"
"Romeo is out! Peace, good Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing."
"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,"
"What are you, a psychologist? This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves; Supper is done, and we shall come too late, yet before it is missed," said Benvolio.
"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 closed within my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But He, that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen," I said as we walked off.