Mercutio shook his head. He looked good and hard at the cold, empty street around him.
“No. I thought at first, perhaps. But Verona is fairer. This place is as a child’s toy to a real, true woman. Verona hath some color in her cheeks, some laughter in her. This may be the bones of her. Or some visor. ‘Tis like a painted parody; a poor, pallid mask of her. And it fools me little… It is as if it were indeed a clown’s face, made only to mock.”