Arm.

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

Moth.

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

Arm.

Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.^{1 note}

Moth.

No, no; O lord, Sir, no.

Arm.

How can'st thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender Juvenile?

Moth.

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

Arm.

Why, tough Signior? why, tough Signior?

Moth.

Why, tender Juvenile? why, tender Juvenile?

Arm.

I spoke it, tender Juvenile, as a congruent epitheton, appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

Moth.

And I tough Signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

Arm.

Pretty and apt.

Moth.

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

Arm.

Thou pretty, because little.

Moth.

Little! pretty, because little; wherefore apt?

Arm.

And therefore apt, because quick.

Moth.

Speak you this in my praise, master?

Arm.

In thy condign praise.

Moth.

I will praise an eel with the same praise.

Arm.

What? that an eel is ingenious.

Moth.

That an eel is quick.

Arm.

I do say, thou art quick in answers. Thou heat'st my blood—

Moth.

I am answer'd, Sir.

Arm.

I love not to be crost.

Moth.

He speaks the clean contrary, crosses love not him.^{2 note}

Arm.

I have promis'd to study three years with the King.

Moth.

You may do it in an hour, Sir.

Arm.

Impossible.

Moth.

How many is one thrice told?

Arm.

I am ill at reckoning, it fits the spirit of a tapster.

Moth.

You are a gentleman and a gamester.

Arm.

I confess both; they are both the varnish of a compleat man.

Moth.

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

Arm.

It doth amount to one more than two.

Moth.

Which the base vulgar call, three.

Arm.

True.

Moth.

Why, Sir, is this such a piece of study? now here's three studied ere you'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.6Q0053

Arm.

A most fine figure.

Moth.

To prove you a cypher.

Arm.

I will hereupon confess, I am in love; and, as it is base for a soldier to love, so I am 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 devis'd curt'sy. I think it scorn to sigh; methinks, I should out-swear 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.

Sampson, 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.

Arm

O well-knit Sampson, strong-jointed Sampson! I do excel thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Sampson'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, Sampson 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 mask'd 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 rhime, master, against the reason of white and red.

Arm.

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

Moth.

The world was 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.

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.

To be whipp'd; 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 is past.