AMO. Forgive it now: it was the solecism of my stars.
CRI. The wring by the hand, and the banquet, is ours.
MER. O, here's a lady feels like a wench of the first year; you
would think her hand did melt in your touch; and the bones of her
fingers ran out at length when you prest 'em, they are so gently
delicate! He that had the grace to print a kiss on these lips,
should taste wine and rose-leaves. O, she kisses as close as a
cockle. Let's take them down, as deep as our hearts, wench, till
our very souls mix. Adieu, signior: good faith I shall drink to
you at supper, sir.
ANA. Stay, monsieur. Who awards you the prize?
CRI. Why, his proper merit, sir; you see he has played down your
grand garb-master, here.
ANA. That's not in your logic to determine, sir: you are no
courtier. This is none of your seven or nine beggarly sciences, but
a certain mystery above them, wherein we that have skill must
pronounce, and not such fresh men as you are.
CRI. Indeed, I must declare myself to you no profest courtling;
nor to have any excellent stroke at your subtile weapons; yet if
you please, I dare venture a hit with you, or your fellow, sir
Dagonet, here.
ANA. With me!
CRI. Yes, sir.
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