Fran. Better that,
Than change perfumes for plasters.
Brach. Pity on thee!
'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,
Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,
Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.
Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further
Without a milder limit.
Fran. Willingly.
Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait
A lion thus?
Mont. My lord!
Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir.
Fran. We send unto the duke for conference
'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke
Is not at home: we come ourself in person;
Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear
When Tiber to each prowling passenger
Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord--
'Bout moulting time I mean--we shall be certain
To find you sure enough, and speak with you.
Brach. Ha!
Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.
But to express the sonnet by natural reason,
[Enter Giovanni.
When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37