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.

Moth.

No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

Arm.

How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

Moth.

By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior ^note.

Arm.

Why tough senior ^note? why tough senior?

Moth.

Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?

Arm.

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

Moth.

And I, tough senior ^note, 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 ^note, because little. Wherefore apt?

Arm.

And therefore apt ^note, 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 ^note?

Moth.

That an eel is quick.

Arm.

I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood.

Moth.

I am answered, sir.

Arm.

I love not to be crossed.

Moth. [Aside ^note]

He speaks the mere contrary ^note; crosses love not him.

Arm.

I have promised to study three years with the Duke ^note.

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 fitteth ^note the spirit of a tapster.

Moth.

You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

Arm.

I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete 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 do ^note call three.

Arm.

True.

Moth.

Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is ^note three studied, ere ye'll ^note thrice wink: and how easy it is ^note 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 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-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 ^note.

Arm.

My ^note love is most immaculate white and red.

Moth.

Most maculate ^note 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 ^note!

Moth.
If she be made of white and red,
  Her faults will ne'er be known;
For blushing ^note 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 Beggar?

Moth.

The world was very guilty ^note 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 ^note hind Costard: she deserves well.

Moth. [Aside ^note]

To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master ^note.

Arm.

Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love ^note.

Moth.

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

Arm.

I say, sing.

Moth.

Forbear till this company be past.