Shakespeare:
To me he’s perfect. In beauty a paragon, in wit unfellow’d.
Southampton:
I would not trust him; he’s selfish.
Lacy:
Most insensitive-hard.
Shakespeare:
[Turns to Lacy.] Youth, youth, my lord! We do not blame the unripe fruit for hardness; a few sunny days will mellow it, and turn the bitter to juicy sweet.
Southampton:
What a friend you are, Shakespeare! You find excuses for everyone.