VALENTINE.
She gave me none, except an angry word.
SPEED.
Why, she hath given you a letter.
VALENTINE.
That’s the letter I writ to her friend.
SPEED.
And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.
VALENTINE.
I would it were no worse.
SPEED.
I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well.
For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply,
Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’Tis dinner time.
VALENTINE.
I have dined.
SPEED.
Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved.
[Exeunt.]