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Philaster

ACT II. SC. a

Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend Your forehead or your cheeks, and kiss you too. Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, madam. Meg. I shall, I shall.

Pha.

By my life, but you shall not; 100 I'll prompt you first. [Kisses her.] Can you do it

now?

Meg. Methinks 'tis easy, now you ha' done't before me; But yet I should stick at it.

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Meg. Love you, my lord! how would you have me love

you?

Pha. I'll teach you in a short sentence, 'cause I will not load your memory: this is all; love me, and lie with me.

Meg. Was it lie with you, you said? 'tis impossible. 110 Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will endeavour: if I

do not teach you to do it as easily in one night as you '11 go to bed, I'll lose my royal blood for 't. Meg. Why, prince, you have a lady of your own That yet wants teaching.

Pha. I'll sooner teach a mare the old measures, than teach her anything belonging to the function. She's afraid to lie with herself, if she have but any masculine imaginations about her. I know, when we are married, I must ravish her.

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Meg. By my honour, that's a foul fault, indeed;

But time and your good help will wear it out, sir. Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self, dearest lady, I had rather be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a dairy-maid.

Meg. Has your grace seen the court star, Galatea? Pha. Out upon her! she's as cold of her favour as an apoplex: she sailed by but now.

Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir? 129 Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it; she would blow 'em out of the kingdom. They talk of Jupiter; he's but a squib-cracker to her: look well about you, and you may find a tongue-bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely welcome?

Meg. Whither?

Pha. To your bed. If you mistrust my faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong.

Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not.

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Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal 'em ; and what you dare imagine you can want, I'll furnish you withal give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come, I know you are bashful ; Speak in my ear, will you be mine? Keep this, [Gives her a ring.

And with it me: soon I will visit you.

Meg. My lord,

My chamber's most unsafe; but when 'tis night,

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I'll find some means to slip into your lodging;
Till when-

Pha. Till when, this and my heart go with thee!

Re-enter Galatea.

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[Exeunt severally

Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince! are these Well, if I do not lay a train to

your virtues?

blow your sport up, I am no woman: and, Lady Towsabel, I'll fit you for 't.

SCENE III

Arethusa's Apartment in the Palace.

Enter Arethusa and a Lady.

Are. Where's the boy?

Lady. Within, madam.

Are. Gave you him gold to buy him clothes?

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Are. 'Tis a pretty sad-talking boy, is it not?

Asked you his name?

Lady. No, madam.

Enter Galatea.

Are. Oh, you are welcome. What good news?
Gal. As good as any one can tell your grace,

[Exit.

ΤΟ

That says, she has done that you would have wished.

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Gal. In listening after bawdry. I see, let a lady
Live never so modestly, she shall be sure to find
A lawful time to hearken after bawdry.
Your prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on 't!
Are. With whom?

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Are. Run thyself into the presence; mingle there again With other ladies; leave the rest to me.

[Exit Galatea.

If destiny (to whom we dare not say,
Why thou didst this) have not decreed it so,
In lasting leaves (whose smallest characters
Was never altered yet), this match shall break.

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You are sad to change your service; is't not so? Bel. Madam, I have not changed; I wait on you,

To do him service.

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Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can.

Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy years know? Hadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to

school?

Thou art not capable of other grief;

Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them: believe me, boy,
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes,
And builds himself caves, to abide in them.

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Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me? Bel. Love, madam! I know not what it is. Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love? Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me

Bel.

As if he wished me well?

If it be love

To forget all respect of his own friends

With thinking of your face; if it be love
To sit cross-armed and sigh away the day,
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud
And hastily as men i' the streets do fire;
If it be love to weep himself away

When he but hears of any lady dead

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Or killed, because it might have been your chance ;
If, when he goes to rest (which will not be),

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