Arm. It doth amount to one more than two.
Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three.
Arm. True.

Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now

here is three studied, ere ye 'll thrice wink: and 50 how easy it is to put years to the word three, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

Arm. A most fine figure!

Moth. To prove you a cipher.

Arm. 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 60 prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love? Moth. Hercules, master.

Arm. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

Moth. Samson, master: he was a man of good
carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town- 70
gates on his back like a porter: and he was in
love.

Arm. 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?
Moth. A woman, master.

Arm. Of what complexion?

Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or

one of the four.

Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion.
Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir.

Arm. Is that one of the four complexions?

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

Moth. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit.
Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red.
Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked
under such colours.

Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant.

Moth. My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!

Arm. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and

pathetical!

Moth. If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne'er be known;

For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,

And fears by pale white shown:

Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know;

For still her cheeks possess the same
Which native she doth owe.

A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason
of white and red.

Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the

80

90

100

Beggar?

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballad 110

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.

Arm. 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.

Moth. [Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.

Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love.

Moth. And that's great marvel, loving a light

wench.

Arm. I say, sing.

Moth. Forbear till this company be past.

Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta.

120

Dull. Sir, the Duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she is allowed for the 130 day-woman. Fare you well.

Arm. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid.

Jaq. Man.

Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge.

Jaq. That's hereby.

Arm. I know where it is situate.

Jaq. Lord, how wise you are!

Arm. I will tell thee wonders.
Jaq. With that face?