They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.

And so ’tis.

To be relinquish’d of the artists,—

So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.

Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

Right; so I say.

That gave him out incurable,—

Why, there ’tis; so say I too.

Not to be helped.

Right; as ’twere a man assur’d of a—

Uncertain life and sure death.

Just; you say well. So would I have said.

I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

It is indeed; if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in what do you call there?

A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

That’s it; I would have said the very same.

Why, your dolphin is not lustier; fore me, I speak in respect—

Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the—

Very hand of heaven.

Ay, so I say.

In a most weak—

And debile minister, great power, great transcendence, which should indeed give us a further use to be made than alone the recov’ry of the king, as to be—

Generally thankful.

I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

Lustique, as the Dutchman says. I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto.

Mor du vinager! is not this Helen?

Fore God, I think so.

Go, call before me all the lords in court.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

And grant it.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.

No better, if you please.

Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I’d have them whipp’d; or I would send them to th’ Turk to make eunuchs of.

These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her. Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.

Fair one, I think not so.

There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drank wine. But if thou beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.

Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.

Thou know’st she has rais’d me from my sickly bed.

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t.

Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

I take her hand.

Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.

Your pleasure, sir.

Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.

Recantation! My lord! My master!

Ay. Is it not a language I speak?

A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!

Are you companion to the Count Rossillon?

To any count; to all counts; to what is man.

To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.

You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.

What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass. Yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again I care not. Yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou art scarce worth.

Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee—

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.

My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

I have not, my lord, deserv’d it.

Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.

Well, I shall be wiser.

Ev’n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ th’ contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, “He is a man I know.”

My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal; for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, and if I could but meet him again.

Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you; you have a new mistress.

I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He is my good lord; whom I serve above is my master.

Who? God?

Ay, sir.

The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee. Methink’st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller. You are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I’d call you knave. I leave you.

Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal’d awhile.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

What’s the matter, sweetheart?

What, what, sweetheart?

Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?