If love is blind, it can’t hit the target. Now he’ll sit under a medlar tree and wish his mistress were one of those fruits that look like female genitalia. Oh Romeo, I wish she were an open-arse, and you a Popperin pear to “pop her in.” Good night, Romeo. I’ll go to my little trundle bed. This open field is too cold a place for me to sleep. (to BENVOLIO) Come on, should we go?