; heart-sick. Pisanio,
I'll now taste of thy drug.
I could not stir him:
He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.
Thus did he answer me: yet said, hereafter
I might know more.
To the field, to the field!
We'll leave you for this time: go in and rest.
We'll not be long away.
Pray, be not sick,
For you must be our housewife.
Well or ill,
I am bound to you.
And shalt be ever.
This youth, how'er distress'd, appears he hath had
Good ancestors.
How angel-like he sings!
But his neat cookery! he cut our roots
In characters,
And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick
And he her dieter.
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh
Was that it was, for not being such a smile;
The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly
From so divine a temple, to commix
With winds that sailors rail at.
I do note
That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
Mingle their spurs together.
Grow, patience!
And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine
His perishing root with the increasing vine!
It is great morning. Come, away!--
Who's there?
I cannot find those runagates; that villain
Hath mock'd me. I am faint.
'Those runagates!'
Means he not us? I partly know him: 'tis
Cloten, the son o' the queen. I fear some ambush.
I saw him not these many years, and yet
I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws: hence!
He is but one: you and my brother search
What companies are near: pray you, away;
Let me alone with him.
Soft! What are you
That fly me thus? some villain mountaineers?
I have heard of such. What slave art thou?
A thing
More slavish did I ne'er than answering
A slave without a knock.
Thou art a robber,
A law-breaker, a villain: yield thee, thief.
To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not
My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art,
Why I should yield to thee?
Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.
Thou precious varlet,
My tailor made them not.
Hence, then, and thank
The man that gave them thee.