Duke. Art sure ’tis true?
Mel. ’Tis confess’d ’tis right.
Alb. Ay, ’tis right, ’tis true; right; I am a fiddler, a fiddler, a fiddler,—uds fut! a fiddler. I’ll not believe thee; thou art a woman: and ’tis known, veritas non quærit angulos, truth seeks not to lurk under varthingalls; veritas non quærit angulos; a fiddler?
Lav. Worthy sir, pardon; and permit me first to confess [to] yourself,—your deputation[558] dead, hath made my love live, to offend you. 301
Alb. Ay, mock on,—scoff on,—flout on,—do, do, do.
Lav. Troth, sir, in serious.
Alb. Ay, good, good; come hither, Celia.
Burst, breast! rive, heart, asunder! Celia,
Why startest thou back? Seest thou this, Celia?
O me!
How often, with lascivious touch, thy lip
Hath kissed this mark? How oft this much-wrong’d breast
Hath borne the gentle weight of thy soft cheek? 310
Cel. O me, my dearest lord,—my sweet, sweet love!
Alb. What, a fiddler,—a fiddler? now thy love?
I am sure thou scorn’st it; nay, Celia, I could tell
What, on the night before I went to sea,
And took my leave, with hymeneal rites,