For there the cure lies mainly.
Then she told me
She’d watch with me to-night, for well she knew
What hour my fit would take me.
Let her do so;
And when your fit comes, fit her home, and presently.
’Twas very ill done, then;
You should observe her every way.
Alas,
I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way!
That’s all one, if ye make a noise:
If she entreat again, do anything;
Lie with her, if she ask you.
But first, by your leave,
I’ the way of honesty.
That’s but a niceness;
Ne’er cast your child away for honesty:
Cure her first this way; then, if she’ll be honest,
She has the path before her.
Pray, bring her in,
And let’s see how she is.
I will, and tell her
Her Palamon stays for her: but, doctor,
Methinks you are i’ the wrong still. Exit.
Go, go;
You fathers are fine fools: her honesty!
And we should give her physic till we find that—
She may be;
But that’s all one, ’tis nothing to our purpose:
Whate’er her father says, if you perceive
Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?
Please her appetite,
And do it home; it cures her, ipso facto,
The melancholy humour that infects her.
Come; your love Palamon stays for you, child,
And has done this long hour, to visit you.
I thank him for his gentle patience;
He’s a kind gentleman, and I’m much bound to him.
Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me?
I have often:
He dances very finely, very comely;
And, for a jig, come cut and long tail to him;
He turns ye like a top.
He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour,
And that will founder the best hobby-horse,
If I have any skill, in all the parish;
And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ Love:”
What think you of this horse?
Having these virtues,
I think he might be brought to play at tennis.
A very fair hand; and casts himself th’ accounts
Of all his hay and provender; that hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know
The chestnut mare the duke has?
She’s horribly in love with him, poor beast;
But he is like his master, coy and scornful.
Some two hundred bottles,
And twenty strike of oats; but he’ll ne’er have her:
He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice
A miller’s mare; he’ll be the death of her.
Pretty soul,
How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s a curtsy!
Yours to command, i’ the way of honesty.
How far is’t now to th’ end o’ the world, my masters?
Why, play at stool-ball:
What is there else to do?
I am content,
If we shall keep our wedding there.
’Tis true;
For there, I will assure you, we shall find
Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture
To marry us, for here they’re nice and foolish;
Besides, my father must be hang’d to-morrow,
And that would be a blot i’ the business.
Are not you Palamon?
Yes; but you care not for me: I have nothing
But this poor petticoat and two coarse smocks.
’Tis a sweet one,
And will perfume me finely ’gainst the wedding.
Is not this your cousin Arcite?
Yes, sweetheart;
And I am glad my cousin Palamon
Has made so fair a choice.
We shall have many children.—Lord, how y’are grown!
My Palamon I hope will grow, too, finely,
Now he’s at liberty: alas, poor chicken,
He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging;
But I’ll kiss him up again.
What do you here? you’ll lose the noblest sight
That e’er was seen.
They are:
You bear a charge there too.
I’ll away straight.—
I must even leave you here.
Nay, we’ll go with you;
I will not lose the sight.
I’ll warrant you, within these three or four days
I’ll make her right again.—You must not from her,
But still preserve her in this way.
Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner;
And then we’ll play at cards.
Scene III
A part of the forest near Athens, and near the place appointed for the combat.
| Flourish. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous, and Attendants. | |
| Emilia | I’ll no step further. |
| Pirithous | Will you lose this sight? |
| Emilia |
I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly, |
