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Scœne 1.
Trincalo, Armellina.Trincalo.
He that saith I am not in love, he lyes De cap a pe; For I am
idle, choicely neate in my cloathes, valiant, and extreame
witty: My meditations are loaded with metaphors, and
songs sonnets: Not a one shakes his tayle, but I sigh out a
passion: thus doe I to my Mistris; but alas I kisse the dogge, and
she kicks me. I never see a young wanton Filly, but say I, there
goes Armellina; nor a lusty strong Asse, but I remember my selfe,
and sit downe to consider what a goodly race of Mules would inherit,
if she were willing: onely I want utterance, and that's a
maine marke of love too.
Arm.
Trincalo, Trincalo.
Trinc.
O 'tis Armellina: now if she have the wit to beginne, as
I meane she should, then will I confound her with complements
learn all the words I spake and understand not.
Arm.
Trincalo, what price bears Wheat, and Saffron, that your
band's so stiffe and yellow? not a word? why Trincalo! what businesse
in Town? how do all at Totnam? grown mute? What do
you bring from the Country?
Trin.
There 'tis. Now are my floud-gates drawn, and Ile surround
her. What have I brought sweet bit of beauty? a hundred
thousand salutations o'th'elder house to your most illustrious Honour
and Worship.
Arm.
To me these Titles? is your basket full of nothing else?
Trin.
Full of the fruits of love, most resplendant Lady; a present
to your worthinesse from your Worships poore vassall Trincalo.
Arm.
My life on't, he scrap't these complements from his Cart
the last load hee carried for the Progresse. What ha you read that
may you grow so eloquent?
Trin.
Sweet Madam, I read nothing but the lines of your Ladiships
countenance, and desire onely to kisse the skirts of your
garments, if you vouchsafe mee not the happinesse of your white
hands.
Arm.
Come, gives your basket and take it.
Tri.
O sweet! now will I never wash my mouth after, nor
breath, but at my nosthrils, lest I lose the taste of her fingers. Armellina,
I must tell you a secret if you'le make much on't.
Arm.
As it deserves: what is't?
Trin.
I love you, dear morsell of modesty, I love: and so truly,
that Ile make you Mistris of my thoughts, Lady of my revenews,
and commit all my moveables into your hands, that is, I give
you an earnest kisse in the high way of Matrimony.
Arm.
This is the end of all this businesse?
Trin.
Is this the end of all this businesse, most beautifull, and
most worthy to be most beautifull Lady.
Arm.
Hence foole, hence.
Trin.
Why now she knows my meaning, let it work: She put
up the fruit in her lap, and threw away the basket: Tis a plaine
signe, she abhors the words, and embraces the meaning; O lips,
no lips, but leaves besmeared with mel-dew! O dew no dew, but
teares! O teares no teares, but—
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