Arm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?
Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.
Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, 005 dear imp.
Moth. No, no; O Lord, sir, no.
Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?
Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the working, [010] my tough senior.
Arm. Why tough senior? why tough senior?
Moth. Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?
[013] Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may 015 nominate tender.
Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.