Arm. I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man.
045 Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.
Arm. It doth amount to one more than two.
[048] Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three.
Arm. True.
050 Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now [051] here is three studied, ere ye’ll thrice wink: and how easy it is to put years to the word three, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.
Arm. A most fine figure!
[055] Moth. To prove you a cipher.
Arm. I will hereupon confess I am in love: and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I 060 would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love?
Moth. Hercules, master.