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 cross'd.
MOTH [Aside.] He speaks the mere contrary, crosses love not him.
ARM. I have promised to study three years with the Duke.
MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir.
ARM. Impossible.
MOTH. How many is one thrice told?
ARM. I am ill at reck'ning, it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.
MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.
ARM. I confess both, they are both the varnish of a complete 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 do call three.
ARM. True.
MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is 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 [Aside.] To prove you a cipher.
ARM. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humor 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 cur'sy. I think scorn to sigh; me- thinks I should outswear 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.
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