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Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee.
Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now, my precious gipsy.
Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats.
Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the town heat too fast.
Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then?
Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident They have a certain spice of the disease; For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas.
Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me.
Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one example more for thee. aesop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners.
Zan. You remember your oaths?
Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen, protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman?
Enter Cornelia
Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews.
[Strikes Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court!
[Exit Cornelia.
Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff, For fear of her light fingers.
Marc. You 're a strumpet, An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?
Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree?
Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?
Marc. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake, In some new-seeded garden, to affright Her fellow crows thence.
Flam. You 're a boy, a fool, Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat.
Flam. With a fan of feather?
Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip This folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?
I 'll purge it with rhubarb.
Hort. Oh, your brother!
Flam. Hang him, He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least: I do suspect my mother play'd foul play, When she conceiv'd thee.
Marc. Now, by all my hopes, Like the two slaughter'd sons of ?dipus, The very flames of our affection Shall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answer With thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress; You know where you shall find me.
Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.
And thou be'st a n.o.ble friend, bear him my sword, And bid him fit the length on 't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche.
Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace!
[Enter Francisco.
I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now, 'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush, I love you.
