[007] Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?
Arm. How meanest thou? brawling in French?
010 Moth. No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at [011] the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with [012] turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime [013] through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing [014] love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up 015 love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the [016] shop of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too [019] long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, 020 these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that [021] would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note—do you note me?—that most are affected to these.
Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience?
[024] Moth. By my penny of observation.
025 Arm. But O,—but O,—
Moth. ‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’
Arm. Callest thou my love ‘hobby-horse’?
Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your 030 love?
Arm. Almost I had.