Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more!
For, oh, love’s bow
Shoots buck and doe;
The shaft confounds
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.
These lovers cry, O ho, they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill
Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still.
O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!—hey ho!
HELEN.
In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose.
PARIS.
He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
PANDARUS.
Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field today?
PARIS.
Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm’d today, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?
HELEN.
He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.
PANDARUS.
Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend today. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse?
PARIS.
To a hair.
PANDARUS.
Farewell, sweet queen.
HELEN.
Commend me to your niece.