O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in
holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths,
our very petticoats will catch them.
I could shake them off my coat. These burs
are in my heart.
Hem them away.
I would try, if I could cry “hem” and have
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler
O, a good wish upon you. You will try in time, in
despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of
service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on
such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking
with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his
son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him,
for my father hated his father dearly. Yet I hate not
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?
Let me love him for that, and do you love
him because I do.