Hip. Matheo, thou dost wound me more.
Mat. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds.
Duke. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman!
Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage
Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats
And bears down all respects of life, of honour,
Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth.
Hip. Forget her?
Duke. Nay, nay, be but patient;
For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce
’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse?
What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms?
Queen’s bodies are but trunks to put in worms.
Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.] S’blood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside]. My Lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?
Hip. Where is the body?
Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.
Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn:
I’ll see how my love looks. [Matheo holds him back.
Mat. How your love looks? worse than a scare-crow.
Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat.