Taf. Sure, he's taken?
Adri. A little sing'd or so:
Each thing must have beginning; men must prepare,
Before they can come on, and show their loves
In pleasing sorts: the man must do in time;
For love, good mistress, is much like to wax—
The more 'tis rubb'd, it sticks the faster to;
Or, like a bird in bird-lime or a pit-fall,
The more he labours, still the deeper in.
Taf. Come, thou must help me now; I have a trick
To second this beginning, and in the nick
To strike it dead, i' faith. Women must woo,
When men forget what nature leads them to. [Exeunt.
Enter Throat the lawyer from his study; books and bags of money on a table, a chair and cushion.
Throat. Chaste Phœbe, splende; there's that left yet,
Next to my book, claro micante auro.
Ay, that's the soul of law; that's it, that's it,
For which the buckram-bag must trudge all weathers,
Though scarcely fill'd with one poor replication.
How happy are we, that we joy the law
So freely as we do: not bought and sold,
But clearly given, without all base extorting:
Taking but bare ten angels for a fee,
Or upward. To this renown'd estate
Have I by indirect and cunning means
Enwoven myself, and now can scratch it out:
Thrust at a bar, and cry My lord as loud
As e'er a listed gownman of them all.
I never plead before the honour'd bench:
But bench right-worshipful of peaceful justices
And country gentlemen: and yet I've found
Good gettings, by the mass; besides odd cheats,
Will Small-shank's lands, and many garboils[345] more,
Dash!
Enter Dash.
Dash. Sir.
Throat. Is that rejoinder done?
Dash. Done, sir.