Re-enter Hortensio and Zanche, with a Young Lord and two others.
How now, gallants! what, are they ready for the barriers?
Young Lord. Yes; the lords are putting on their armour.
Hort. What's he?
Flam. A new up-start; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to the court, smell worse of sweat than an under-tennis-court-keeper.
Hort. Look you, yonder's your sweet mistress.
Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villany. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears: but for fear of turning upon me and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil.
Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee.
Flam. Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him,—Now, my precious gipsey.
Zanche. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats.