Rhyme. I do conceive you, though, Sir Christopher;
My muse doth sometimes take the selfsame flight.
Chris. Pauci, pauci quos æquus amavit.
But quadragesimal wits[193] and fancies, lean
As ember weeks (which therefore I call lean,
Because they're fat), these I do doom unto
A knowing ignorance: he that's conceiv'd
By such is not conceiv'd; sense is non-sense,
If understood by them. I'm strong again.
Rhyme. You err most orthodoxly, sweet Sir Kit.
Chris. I love that, though I hate it; and I have
A kind of disagreeing consent to't.
I'm strong, I'm strong again. Let's keep these two
In desperate hope of understanding us:
Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech.
I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts, as 'twere
In a perspicuous cloud, that I may
Whisper in a loud voice, and ev'n be silent,
When I do utter words. Words did I call them?
My words shall be no words, my voice no voice,
My noise no noise, my very language silence.
I'm strong, I'm strong. Good sir, you understand not!
Bag. Nor do desire: 'tis merely froth and barm,
The yeast that makes your thin small sermons work.
Chris. Thou hold'st thy peace most vocally. Again!
Catch. I hate this bilk.
Chris. Thou lov'st, 'cause thou dost hate:
Thy injuries are courtesies. Strong again!
Catch. Good Samson, use not this your ass's jaw-bone.
Chris. Thou'st got my love by losing it: that earnest
Jest hath regain'd my soul. Samson was strong;
He killed a thousand with an ass's jaw-bone,