Duke. Come, come, we’ll have you friends; join hearts, join hands.
Cand. See, my lord, we are even,—
Nay rise, for ill deeds kneel unto none but Heaven.
Duke. Signor, methinks patience has laid on you
Such heavy weight, that you should loathe it——
Cand. Loathe it!
Duke. For he whose breast is tender, blood so cool,
That no wrongs heat it, is a patient fool:
What comfort do you find in being so calm?
Cand. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm,
Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues, ’tis nearest kin to Heaven.
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e’er wore earth about him, was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.
The stock of patience then cannot be poor;
All it desires, it has; what monarch more?
It is the greatest enemy to law
That can be; for it doth embrace all wrongs,
And so chains up lawyers and women’s tongues.
’Tis the perpetual prisoner’s liberty,
His walks and orchards: ’tis the bond slave’s freedom,
And makes him seem proud of each iron chain,
As though he wore it more for state than pain:
It is the beggars’ music, and thus sings,
Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings.
O my dread liege! It is the sap of bliss
Rears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss.
And last of all, to end a household strife,
It is the honey ’gainst a waspish wife.
Duke. Thou giv’st it lively colours: who dare say
He’s mad, whose words march in so good array?
’Twere sin all women should such husbands have,
For every man must then be his wife’s slave.
Come, therefore, you shall teach our court to shine,
So calm a spirit is worth a golden mine,
Wives with meek husbands that to vex them long,
In Bedlam must they dwell, else dwell they wrong. [Exeunt omnes.
