Bene.

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the speech of Beatrice

Marg.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

Bene.

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.

Marg.

^{3 note}

Bene.

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth, it catches.

Marg.

And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.

Bene.

A most manly wit, Margaret, it will not hurt

a woman; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice; I give thee the bucklers.^{4 note}

Marg.

Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.

Bene.

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

Marg.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I think, hath legs.

Bene.

And therefore will come. [Sings.] The God of love, that sits above, and knows me, and knows me, how pitiful I deserve,—I mean, in singing; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of pandars, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse; why, they were never so truly turn'd over and over, as my poor self, in love; marry, I cannot shew it in rhime; I have try'd; I can find out no rhime to lady but baby, an innocent's rhime; for scorn, horn, a hard rhime; for school, fool, a babling rhime; very ominous endings; no, I was not born under a rhiming planet, for I cannot woo in festival terms.