Launce.
Speed.
Launce, by mine honesty, welcome to 3 noteMilan.
Launce.
Forswear not thy self, sweet youth; for I
am not welcome: I reckon this always, that a man is
never undone, 'till he be hang'd; nor never welcome
to a place, till some certain shot be paid, and the
hostess say, welcome.
Speed.
Come on, you mad-cap; I'll to the ale-house
with you presently, where, for one shot of five-pence,
thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But,
Sirrah, how did thy master part with madam Julia?
Laun.
Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they
parted very fairly in jest.
Speed.
But shall she marry him?
Laun.
No.
Speed.
How then? shall he marry her?
Laun.
No, neither.
Speed.
What, are they broken?
Laun.
No, they are both as whole as a fish.
Speed.
Why then how stands the matter with them?
Laun.
Marry, thus: when it stands well with him,
it stands well with her.
Speed.
What an ass art thou? I understand thee not.
Laun.
What a block art thou, that thou canst not?
My staff understands me.
Speed.
What thou say'st?
-- 204 --
Laun.
Ay, and what I do too? look thee, I'll but
lean, and my staff understands me.
Speed.
It stands under thee indeed.
Laun.
Why, stand-under, and understand, is all one.
Speed.
But tell me true, will't be a match?
Laun.
Ask my dog: if he say, ay, it will; if he
say, no, it will; if he shake his tail, and say nothing,
it will.
Speed.
The conclusion is then, that it will.
Laun.
Thou shalt never get such a secret from me,
but by a parable.
Speed.
'Tis well, that I get it so; but Launce, how
say'st thou, that my master is become a notable lover?
Laun.
I never knew him otherwise.
Speed.
Than how?
Laun.
A notable Lubber, as thou reportest him to be.
Speed.
Why, thou whorson ass, thou mistak'st me.
Laun.
Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy
master.
Speed.
I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.
Laun.
Why, I tell thee, I care not tho' he burn
himself in love: If thou wilt go with me to the ale-house,
so; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not
worth the name of a Christian.
Speed.
Why?
Laun.
Because thou hast not so much charity in
thee, as to go to the ale-house with a Christian: wilt
thou go?
Speed.
At thy service.
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
