"I think of calling it 'Venus and Adonis,'" he said, "for fault of a better name."
"Call it what thou wilt, lad," said Froth, "'tis a glorious commencement. Like everything else thou dost, 'tis excellent."
"Ha, ha," said Pierce Caliver, "thou art full of thy ropery, Froth; thou word'st him, thou word'st him. See, he blusheth at thy praise."
"I word him not, but as I mean," said Froth; "an his cheek blusheth, 'tis more than thine was ever guilty of. I hate flattery as I hate an unfilled flasket in the woodlands at midnight. He hath but one fault, that lad."
"Ah, a fault," said Caliver, "can Will Shakespeare own a fault in thy eyes? I pr'ythee let's hear it."
"Nay, 'tis not a fault, either, 'tis a misfortune," said Froth, "he's married."
"Gad-a-mercy, that is indeed a scrape to get into!" said Ralph Careless. "I have been twice across the Atlantic, escaped shipwreck as often, been left for dead amongst the burning huts of a Spanish settlement; and yet have I never had such an escape as when I offered marriage to the Widow Crooke, and she altered her mind a week before the day fixed."
"That widow must be worthy looking on too," said Froth; "for truly her own escape exceedeth all thine put together."
"How so?" said Careless.
"In escaping from thee," returned Froth.