Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

Why, sadness is one and the selfsame thing, dear imp.

No, no, O Lord, sir, no.

How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough signior.

Why tough signior? Why tough signior?

Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal?

I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to

thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which

we may name tough.

Pretty and apt.

How mean you, sir? I pretty and my saying apt, or I apt, and my saying

pretty?

Thou pretty, because little.

Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

And therefore apt, because quick.

Speak you this in my praise, master?

In thy condign praise.

I will praise an eel with the same praise.

What, that an eel is ingenious?

That an eel is quick.

I do say thou art quick in answers. Thou heat’st my blood.

I am answered, sir.

I love not to be crossed.

[_Aside_.] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him.

I have promised to study three years with the Duke.

You may do it in an hour, sir.

Impossible.

How many is one thrice told?

I am ill at reckoning. It fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

I confess both. They are both the varnish of a complete man.

Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

It doth amount to one more than two.

Which the base vulgar do call three.

True.

Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here’s three studied ere

ye’ll thrice wink. And how easy it is to put “years” to the word

“three”, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will

tell you.

A most fine figure!

[_Aside_.] To prove you a cipher.

I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier

to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against

the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of

it, I would take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier

for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should

outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love?

Hercules, master.

Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my

child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he

carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love.

O well-knit Samson, strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier

as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was

Samson’s love, my dear Moth?

A woman, master.

Of what complexion?

Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

Tell me precisely of what complexion.

Of the sea-water green, sir.

Is that one of the four complexions?

As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

Green indeed is the colour of lovers. But to have a love of that

colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her

for her wit.

It was so, sir, for she had a green wit.

My love is most immaculate white and red.

Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours.

Define, define, well-educated infant.

My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue assist me!

Sweet invocation of a child, most pretty, and pathetical!

Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but I

think now ’tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve

for the writing nor the tune.

I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my

digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl

that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard. She deserves

well.

[_Aside_.] To be whipped: and yet a better love than my master.

Sing, boy. My spirit grows heavy in love.

And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench.

I say, sing.

Forbear till this company be past.

Sir, the Duke’s pleasure is that you keep Costard safe; and you must

suffer him to take no delight, nor no penance, but he must fast three

days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park. She is

allowed for the dey-woman. Fare you well.

I do betray myself with blushing.—Maid.

Man.

I will visit thee at the lodge.

That’s hereby.

I know where it is situate.

Lord, how wise you are!

I will tell thee wonders.

With that face?

I love thee.

So I heard you say.

And so, farewell.

Fair weather after you!

Come, Jaquenetta, away.

Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.

Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach.

Thou shalt be heavily punished.

I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly

rewarded.

Take away this villain. Shut him up.

Come, you transgressing slave, away!

Let me not be pent up, sir. I will fast being loose.

No, sir, that were fast and loose. Thou shalt to prison.

Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen,

some shall see.

What shall some see?

Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for

prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say

nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and

therefore I can be quiet.

I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is

baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be

forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And how

can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar;

Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so

tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced,

and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for

Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier.

The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the _passado_ he

respects not, the _duello_ he regards not. His disgrace is to be called

boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be

still, drum, for your manager is in love. Yea, he loveth. Assist me,

some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet.

Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.