Worc. In faith, my Lord, you are too wilfull blame, And since your comming hither, haue done enough, To put him quite besides his patience. You must needes learne, Lord, to amend this fault: Though sometimes it shew Greatnesse, Courage, Blood, And that's the dearest grace it renders you; Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh Rage, Defect of Manners, want of Gouernment, Pride, Haughtinesse, Opinion, and Disdaine: The least of which, haunting a Nobleman, Loseth mens hearts, and leaues behinde a stayne Vpon the beautie of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation

Hotsp. Well, I am school'd: Good-manners be your speede; Heere come your Wiues, and let vs take our leaue. Enter Glendower, with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spight, that angers me, My Wife can speake no English, I no Welsh

Glend. My Daughter weepes, shee'le not part with you, Shee'le be a Souldier too, shee'le to the Warres

Mort. Good Father tell her, that she and my Aunt Percy Shall follow in your Conduct speedily.

Glendower speakes to her in Welsh, and she answeres him in the same.

Glend. Shee is desperate heere: A peeuish selfe-will'd Harlotry, One that no perswasion can doe good vpon.

The Lady speakes in Welsh.

Mort. I vnderstand thy Lookes: that pretty Welsh Which thou powr'st down from these swelling Heauens, I am too perfect in: and but for shame, In such a parley should I answere thee.

The Lady againe in welsh.

Mort. I vnderstand thy Kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation: But I will neuer be a Truant, Loue, Till I haue learn'd thy Language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as Ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a faire Queene in a Summers Bowre, With rauishing Diuision to her Lute

Glend. Nay, if thou melt, then will she runne madde.

The Lady speakes againe in Welsh.

Mort. O, I am Ignorance it selfe in this

Glend. She bids you, On the wanton Rushes lay you downe, And rest your gentle Head vpon her Lappe, And she will sing the Song that pleaseth you, And on your Eye-lids Crowne the God of Sleepe, Charming your blood with pleasing heauinesse; Making such difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe, As is the difference betwixt Day and Night, The houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme Begins his Golden Progresse in the East

Mort. With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing: By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne

Glend. Doe so: And those Musitians that shall play to you, Hang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence; And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend

Hotsp. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe: Come, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy Lappe

Lady. Goe, ye giddy-Goose.

The Musicke playes.

Hotsp. Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderstands Welsh, And 'tis no maruell he is so humorous: Byrlady hee's a good Musitian

Lady. Then would you be nothing but Musicall, For you are altogether gouerned by humors: Lye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh

Hotsp. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in Irish

Lady. Would'st haue thy Head broken? Hotsp. No

Lady. Then be still

Hotsp. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault

Lady. Now God helpe thee

Hotsp. To the Welsh Ladies Bed

Lady. What's that? Hotsp. Peace, shee sings.

Heere the Lady sings a Welsh Song.

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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