To. Excellent, I smell a deuice
An. I hau't in my nose too
To. He shall thinke by the Letters that thou wilt drop that they come from my Neece, and that shee's in loue with him
Mar. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour
An. And your horse now would make him an Asse
Mar. Asse, I doubt not
An. O twill be admirable
Mar. Sport royall I warrant you: I know my Physicke will worke with him, I will plant you two, and let the Foole make a third, where he shall finde the Letter: obserue his construction of it: For this night to bed, and dreame on the euent: Farewell.
To. Good night Penthisilea
An. Before me she's a good wench
To. She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me: what o'that? An. I was ador'd once too
To. Let's to bed knight: Thou hadst neede send for more money
An. If I cannot recouer your Neece, I am a foule way out
To. Send for money knight, if thou hast her not i'th end, call me Cut
An. If I do not, neuer trust me, take it how you will
To. Come, come, Ile go burne some Sacke, tis too late to go to bed now: Come knight, come knight.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others
Du. Giue me some Musick; Now good morow frends. Now good Cesario, but that peece of song, That old and Anticke song we heard last night; Me thought it did releeue my passion much, More then light ayres, and recollected termes Of these most briske and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse
Cur. He is not heere (so please your Lordshippe) that should sing it? Du. Who was it? Cur. Feste the Iester my Lord, a foole that the Ladie Oliuiaes Father tooke much delight in. He is about the house
Du. Seeke him out, and play the tune the while.
Come hither Boy, if euer thou shalt loue In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: For such as I am, all true Louers are, Vnstaid and skittish in all motions else, Saue in the constant image of the creature That is belou'd. How dost thou like this tune? Vio. It giues a verie eccho to the seate Where loue is thron'd
Du. Thou dost speake masterly, My life vpon't, yong though thou art, thine eye Hath staid vpon some fauour that it loues: Hath it not boy? Vio. A little, by your fauour
Du. What kinde of woman ist? Vio. Of your complection
Du. She is not worth thee then. What yeares ifaith? Vio. About your yeeres my Lord
Du. Too old by heauen: Let still the woman take An elder then her selfe, so weares she to him; So swayes she leuell in her husbands heart: For boy, howeuer we do praise our selues, Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme, More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne, Then womens are
Vio. I thinke it well my Lord
Du. Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as Roses, whose faire flowre Being once displaid, doth fall that verie howre
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so: To die, euen when they to perfection grow. Enter Curio & Clowne.
Du. O fellow come, the song we had last night: Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine; The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun, And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones, Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of loue, Like the old age