DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women’s are.
VIOLA.
I think it well, my lord.
DUKE.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as roses, whose fair flower
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.
VIOLA.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Enter Curio and Clown.
DUKE.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?
DUKE.
Ay; prithee, sing.
[Music.]
The Clown’s song.