Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover: we have many wenches about the town heat too fast.
Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then?
Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident
They have a certain spice of the disease;
For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas.
Zanche. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you love me.
Flam. How! love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I'll unkennel one example more for thee. Æsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow: I would have courtiers be better divers.
Zanche. You remember your oaths?
Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sun-burnt gentleman?
Re-enter Cornelia.
Cor. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to the stews.
[Striking Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapt by the heels now: strike i' the court!
[Exit Cornelia.
Zanche. She's good for nothing, but to make her maids
Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bed-staff
For fear of her light fingers.
Mar. You're a strumpet,
An impudent one. [Kicking Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?
Do you think that she is like a walnut tree?
Must she be cudgelled ere she bear good fruit?
Mar. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Mar. I had rather she were pitched upon a stake
In some new-seeded garden, to affright
Her fellow crows thence.
Flam. You're a boy, a fool:
Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Mar. If I take her near you, I'll cut her throat.
Flam. With a fan of feathers?
Mar. And, for you, I'll whip
This folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?
I'll purge't with rhubarb.
Hort. O, your brother!
Flam. Hang him,
He wrongs me most that ought to offend me least.—
I do suspect my mother played foul play
When she conceived thee.
Mar. Now, by all my hopes,
Like the two slaughtered sons of Œdipus,
The very flames of our affection
Shall turn two ways. Those words I'll make thee answer
With thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress:
You know where you shall find me.
Mar. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.
An thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword,
And bid him fit the length on't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall.
[Exeunt Young Lord, Marcello, Hortensio, and the two others.
Zanche. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace!