 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
SCEN. IX.
Techmessa, Ballio.Tech.
Blesse me! what uncouth fancies tosse my brain?
As in yon' arbour sleep had cloz'd mine eies,
Me thought within a flowrie plain were met
A troup of Ladies, and my self was one.
Amongst them rose a challenge, whose soft foot
Should gentliest presse the grasse and quickest run.
The prize for which they strove, the heart of Pamphilus.
The victory was doubtfull. All perform'd
Their course with equall speed, and Pamphilus
Was chosen judge to end the controversie.
Me thought he shar'd his heart, and dealt a piece
To every Lady of the troup, but me:
It was unkindly done.
Ball.
I have descried
Tech.
What, Ballio?
Ball.
A frost in his affections
To you,—but heat above the rage of Dog-dayes
To any other peticoat in Thebes.
I do not think but were the pox a woman,
He would not stick to court it.
Tech.
O my soul!
Thou hast descried too much.—How sweet it is
To live in ignorance?
Ball.
I did sound him home.
And with such words profan'd your reputation,
Would whet a cowards sword. One that ne're saw you
Rebuk'd my slanderous tongue. I feel the crab-tree still,
While he sat still unmov'd.
Tech.
It cannot be.
Ball.
I'le undertake he shall resigne his weapon,
And forsweare steel in any thing but knives,
Rather then venture one small scratch to salve
Your wounded honour: or to prove you chaste,
Encounter with a pin.
Tech.
I am no common mistresse, nor have need
14
To draw in my defence.—Yet had he lov'd me,
He could not heare me injur'd with such patience.
Ballio, one triall more: bring me his sword
Rather resign'd then drawn in my defence,
And I shall rest confirm'd.
Ball.
Here's a fine businesse.
What shall I do? go to a cutlers shop,
And buy a sword like that. O 'twill not do.
Tech.
Will you do this?
Ball.
It is resolv'd. I will
One way or other. Wit, at a dead lift help me.
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