Fabian.
Sir And.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
Sir To.
Thy reason, dear venom, give
thy reason.
Fab.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
Sir And.
Marry, I saw your neice do more favours
to the Duke's serving-man, than ever she bestow'd on
me. I saw't, i'th' orchard.
Sir To.
Did she see thee the while, old boy, tell me
that?
Sir And.
As plain as I see you now.
Fab.
This was a great argument of love in her towards
you.
Sir And.
'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
Fab.
I will prove it legitimate, Sir, upon the oaths
of judgment and reason.
Sir To.
And they have been Grand Jury-men since
before Noah was a sailor.
Fab.
She did shew favour to the youth in your sight,
only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour,
to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in your
liver. You should then have accosted her, with some
excellent jests, fire-new from the mint; you should have
bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for
at your hand, and this was baulkt. The double gilt of
this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are
now sail'd into the north of my lady's opinion;
where you will hang like an isicle on a Dutchman's
-- 407 --
beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt,
either of valour or policy.
Sir And.
And't be any way, it must be with valour;
for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist, as a
politician.
Sir To.
Why then, build me thy fortunes upon the
basis of valour; challenge me the Duke's youth to
fight with him; hurt him in eleven places; my niece
shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's
commendation with woman than report of valour.
Fab.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
Sir And.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to
him?
Sir To.
Go, write in a martial hand; be curst and
brief: it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and
full of invention; 3 notetaunt him with the licence of ink;
if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss;
-- 408 --
and as many lies as will lye in thy sheet of paper, although
the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware
in England; set 'em down, go about it. Let there be
gall enough, in thy ink, tho' thou write with a goose-pen,
no matter: about it.
Sir And.
Where shall I find you?
Sir To.
We'll call thee at the Cubiculo: go.
[Exit Sir Andrew.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
