Iago. Nay, it is true: or else I am a Turke,
You rise to play, and go to bed to worke.
Aemil. You shall not write my praise
Iago. No, let me not
Desde. What would'st write of me, if thou should'st
praise me?
Iago. Oh, gentle Lady, do not put me too't,
For I am nothing, if not Criticall
Des. Come on, assay.
There's one gone to the Harbour?
Iago. I Madam
Des. I am not merry: but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
Come, how would'st thou praise me?
Iago. I am about it, but indeed my inuention comes
from my pate, as Birdlyme do's from Freeze, it pluckes
out Braines and all. But my Muse labours, and thus she
is deliuer'd.
If she be faire, and wise: fairenesse, and wit,
The ones for vse, the other vseth it
Des. Well prais'd:
How if she be Blacke and Witty?
Iago. If she be blacke, and thereto haue a wit,
She'le find a white, that shall her blacknesse fit
Des. Worse, and worse.
Aemil. How if Faire, and Foolish?
Iago. She neuer yet was foolish that was faire,
For euen her folly helpt her to an heire
Desde. These are old fond Paradoxes, to make Fooles laugh i'th' Alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that's Foule, and Foolish
Iago. There's none so foule and foolish thereunto,
But do's foule pranks, which faire, and wise-ones do
Desde. Oh heauy ignorance: thou praisest the worst best. But what praise could'st thou bestow on a deseruing woman indeed? One, that in the authorithy of her merit, did iustly put on the vouch of very malice it selfe