Launce.

I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have wit enough to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love, yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who 'tis I love, and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milk-maid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages: she hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. Here is the cat-log [Pulling out a paper] of her conditions: Imprimis, she can fetch and carry; why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. Item, she can milk; look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Speed.

How now, signor Launce? what news with you?

Launce.

The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.

Speed.

Why, man, how black?

Launce.

Why, as black as ink.

Speed.

Let me read them.

Launce.

Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou can'st not read.

Speed.

Thou lyest, I can.

Launce.

I will try the; tell me this, who begot thee?

Speed.

Marry, the son of my grand-father.

Launce.

O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grand-mother: this proves thou can'st not read.

Speed.

Come fool, come, try me in thy paper.

Launce.

There, and St. Nicholas be thy speed.

Speed.

Imprimis, she can milk.

Launce.

Ay, that she can.

Speed.

Item, she brews good ale.

Launce.

And therefore comes the proverb, ‘Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.’

Speed.

She can sew.

Launce.

That's as much as to say, ‘can she so?’

Speed.

Item, she can knit.

Launce.

An excellent quality. I shall wear good stockings.

Speed.

Item, she can wash and scour.

Launce.

A special virtue, for then she need not to be wash'd and scour'd.

Speed.

Item, she can spin.

Launce.

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

Speed.

Item, she hath many nameless virtues.

Launce.

That's as much as to say bastard virtues, that indeed now not their fathers, and therefore have no names.

Speed.

Here follow her vices.

Launce.

Close at the heels of her virtues.

Speed.

Item, she is not to be kist fasting, in respect of her breath.

Launce.

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast: read on.

Speed.

Item, she doth talk in her sleep.

Launce.

So much the better, I shall know all her secrets.

Speed.

Item, she is slow in words.

Launce.

Oh villain! that set down among her vices! to be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray thee out with't, and place it for her chief virtue.

Speed.

Item, she hath no teeth.

Launce.

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

Speed.

Item, she will often praise her liquor.

Launce.

If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I will, for good things should be praised.

Speed.

Item, she is too liberal.

Launce.

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut; now of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed,

Speed.

Item, she hath more hairs than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.

Launce.

Stop here; I'll have her; she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that article. Read that once more.

Speed.

Item, she hath more hairs than wit, and more faults than hairs.

Launce.

That's monstrous: oh that that were out.

Speed.

And more wealth than faults.

Launce.

Why, that word wealth makes the faults gracious: well, I'll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible—

Speed.

What then?

Launce.

Why then will I tell thee, that thy master stays for thee at the north-gate.

Speed.

For me?

Launce.

For thee? ay, who art thou? he hath staid for a better man than thee. Why thy master is vanish'd.

Speed.

And I must go to him?

Launce.

Thou must run to him; for thou hast staid so long lurking here like an idle fellow, that going will scarce serve turn.

Speed.

Why didst not tell me sooner? pox on your love-letters.

Launce.

Now will he be swing'd for reading my letter: an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I'll after, to rejoce in the boy's correction.