Vit. Speak on still:
Your words are falser (fair) than my intents,
And each sweet accent far more treacherous; for
Though you speak ill of me, you speak so well,
I doe desire to hear you.
Cla. Pray be gone:
Or kill me if you please.
Vit. Oh, neither can I,
For to be gone, were to destroy my life;
And to kill you, were to destroy my soul:
I am in love, yet must not be in love:
I'll get away apace: yet valiant Lady,
Such gratitude to honor I do owe,
And such obedience to your memory,
That if you will bestow something, that I
May wear about me, it shall bind all wrath,
My most inveterate wrath, from all attempts,
Till you and I meet next.
Cla. A favour, Sir?
Why, I will give ye good counsel.
Vit. That already,
You have bestowed; a Ribbon, or a Glove.
Cla. Nay, those are tokens for a waiting-maid
To trim the Butler with.
Vit. Your feather.
Cla. Fie; the wenches give them to their serving-men.
Cla. 'Twill hold you but by th' finger;
And I would [have] you faster.