Ami.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaq.

I thank it—more, I pr'ythee, more—I can suck melancholy out of a Song, as a weazel sucks eggs: more, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami.

My voice is rugged* ^note; I know, I cannot please you.

Jaq.

I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing; come, come, another stanzo; call you 'em stanzo's?

Ami.

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaq.

Nay, I care not for their names, they owe me nothing.—Will you sing?

Ami.

More at your request, than to please myself.

Jaq.

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but That, they call Compliments, is like the encounter of two dog-apes. And when a man thanks me heartily, methinks, I have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks.— Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.—

Ami.

Well, I'll end the song. Sirs cover the while; —the Duke will dine under this tree; he hath been all this day to look you.

Jaq.

And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heav'n thanks, and make no boast of them.—Come, warble, come.

SONG.
Why doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie* ^note i'th' Sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets;
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
  Here shall he see
  No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Jaq.

I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami.

And I'll sing it.

Jaq.

Thus it goes.