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PETER
Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
'tis no wit to go
Why, may one ask?
I dream'd a dream to-night
And so did I
Well, what was yours?
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
Her traces of the smallest spider web
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid
In this state she gallops night by night
Ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream
Then he dreams of another benefice
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again
This is she, this is she
Peace, Mercutio, peace
Thou talk'st of nothing
Are you okay?
I'll be fine...
God, Jason, you're flying!
Guys, come on!