Tom. Well, I thank you heartily.
Orl. Why, art thou not that same Angelica,
With brows as bright as fair Erythea
That darks Canopus[160] with her silver hue?
Tom. Yes, forsooth.
Orl. Are not these the beauteous cheeks
Wherein the lily and the native rose
Sit equal-suited with a blushing red?
Tom. He makes a garden-plot in my face.
Orl. Are not, my dear, those [the] radiant eyes,
Whereout proud Phœbus flasheth out his beams?
Tom. Yes, yes, with squibs and crackers bravely.
Orl. You are Angelica?
Tom. Yes, marry, am I.
Orl. Where's your sweetheart Medor?
Tom. Orgalio, give me eighteen-pence, and let me go.
Orl. Speak, strumpet, speak.
Tom. Marry, sir, he is drinking a pint or a quart.
Orl. Why, strumpet, worse than Mars his trothless love,
Falser than faithless Cressida! strumpet, thou shalt not 'scape.
[Beats him.
Tom. Come, come, you do not use me like a gentlewoman: an if I be not for you, I am for another.
Orl. Are you? that will I try. [Beats him out. Exeunt.
ACT THE FOURTH
SCENE I.—The Camp of the Twelve Peers of France.
Enter the Twelve Peers of France, with drum and trumpets.