Mod. Latin, sweet cousin.
Helen. ’Tis a naughty tongue,
I fear, and teaches men to lie.
Mod. To lie!
Helen. You study it. You call your cousin sweet,
And treat her as you would a crab. As sour
’Twould seem you think her, as you covet her!
Why how the monster stares, and looks about!
You construe Latin, and can’t construe that!
Mod. I never studied women.
Helen. No; nor men.
Else would you better know their ways: nor read
In presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.]
Mod. Right you say,
And well you served me, cousin, so to strike
The volume from my hand. I own my fault;
So please you—may I pick it up again?
I’ll put it in my pocket!
Helen. Pick it up.
He fears me as I were his grandmother!
What is the book?
Mod. ’Tis Ovid’s Art of Love.
Helen. That Ovid was a fool!