François. Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made bold to tell you so.
Katherine. His words were of no more account than the wind in the leaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings.
François. Would you pity me if I told you I love you?
Katherine. Heaven’s mercy, how fast your fancy gallops. I care little to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very hard to win.
François. I have more to try than your tap-room bandit. I see what he saw; I love what he loved.
Katherine. You are very inflammable.
François. My fire burns to ashes. You can no more stay me from loving you than you can stay the flowers from loving the soft air, or true men from loving honor, or heroes from loving glory. I would rake the moon from heaven for you.
Katherine. That promise has grown rusty since Adam first made it to Eve. There is a rhyme in my mind about moons and lovers:
Life is unstable,
Love may uphold;