060 That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go:
O that I knew he were but in by the week!
How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes,
[065] And shape his service wholly to my hests,
[066] And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
[067] So perttaunt-like would I o’ersway his state,
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
Prin. None are so surely caught, when they are catch’d,