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.

To have no Man come over me? why shall I always keep above stairs?

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.

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.