Death, what talk you of his learning? he understands no more
than a schoolboy; I have put him down myself a thousand times, by
this air, and yet I never talk'd with him but twice in my life:
you never saw his like. I could never get him to argue with me but
once; and then because I could not construe an author I quoted at
first sight, he went away, and laughed at me. By Hercules, I scorn
him, as I do the sodden nymph that was here even now; his mistress,
Arete: and I love myself for nothing else.
HED. I wonder the fellow does not hang himself, being thus
scorn'd and contemn'd of us that are held the most accomplish'd
society of gallants.
MER. By yourselves, none else.
HED. I protest, if I had no music in me, no courtship; that I were
not a reveller and could dance, or had not those excellent
qualities that give a man life and perfection, but a mere poor
scholar as he is, I think I should make some desperate way with
myself; whereas now, -- would I might never breathe more, if I do
know that creature in this kingdom with whom I would change.
CUP. This is excellent! Well, I must alter all this soon.
MER. Look you do, Cupid. The bottles have wrought, it seems.
ASO. O, I am sorry the revels are crost.
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