_Dol._ Nay there's no rowsing him: he is bewitch'd sure,
His noble blood curdled, and cold within him;
Grown now a womans warriour.
_Sce._ And a tall one:
Studies her fortifications, and her breaches,
And how he may advance his ram to batter
The Bullwork of her chastitie.
_Ant._ Be not too angry,
For by this light, the woman's a rare woman,
A Lady of that catching youth, and beauty,
That unmatch'd sweetness--
_Dol._ But why should he be fool'd so?
Let her be what she will, why should his wisdom,
His age, and honour--
_Ant._ Say it were your own case,
Or mine, or any mans, that has heat in him:
'Tis true at this time when he has no promise
Of more security than his sword can cut through,
I do not hold it so discreet: but a good face, Gentlemen,
And eyes that are the winningst Orators:
A youth that opens like perpetual spring,
And to all these, a tongue that can deliver
The Oracles of Love--
_Sce._ I would you had her,
With all her Oracles, and Miracles,
She were fitter for your turn.
_Ant._ Would I had, _Sceva_,
With all her faults too: let me alone to mend 'em,
O'that condition I made thee mine heir.
_Sce._ I had rather have your black horse, than your harlots.
_Dol._ _Caesar_ writes _Sonnetts_ now, the sound of war
Is grown too boystrous for his mouth: he sighs too.
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