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 can'st thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender Juvenile?

Moth.

By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough Signior.

Arm.

Why, tough Signior? why, tough Signior?

Moth.

Why, tender Juvenile? why, tender Juvenile?

Arm.

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

Moth.

And I tough Signior, 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, because little; wherefore apt?

Arm.

And therefore apt, 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.

Moth.

That an eel is quick.

Arm.

I do say, thou art quick in answers. Thou heat'st my blood.—

Moth.

I am answer'd, Sir.

Arm.

I love not to be crost.

Moth.

He speaks the clean contrary, crosses love not him.

Arm.

I have promis'd to study three years with the King.

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 fits the spirit of a tapster.

Moth.

You are a gentleman, and a gamester.

Arm.

I confess both; they are both the varnish of a compleat 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 call, three.

Arm.

True.

Moth.

Why, Sir, is this such a piece of study? now here's three studied ere you'll thrice wink; and how easie is it 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 cypher.

Arm.

I will hereupon confess, I am in love; and, as it is base for a soldier to love, so I am 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 devis'd curt'sie. I think it scorn to sigh; methinks, I should out-swear 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.

Sampson, 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 Sampson, strong-jointed Sampson! I do excel thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Sampson'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, Sampson had small reason for it. He, surely, affected her for her wit.

Moth.

It was so, Sir, for she had a green wit.

Arm.

My love is most immaculate white and red.

Moth.

Most maculate thoughts, Master, are mask'd 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!

Moth.
If she be made of white and red,
  Her faults will ne'er be known;
For blushing 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 rhime, master, against the reason of white and red.

Arm.

Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

&wlquo;Moth.

&wlquo;The world was guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but, I think, now 'tis not to be found;&wrquo; 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 president. Boy, I do love that country girl, that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard; she deserves well—

Moth.

To be whipp'd; and yet a better love than my master ^{5 note}deserves.

Arm.

Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love.

Moth.

And that's great marvel loving a light wench.

Arm.

I say, sing.

Moth.

Forbear, 'till this company is past.