Love's Labour's Lost. Уильям Шекспир

        ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows

          melancholy?

        MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

        ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.

        MOTH. No, no; O Lord, sir, no!

        ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender

          juvenal?

        MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough

      signior.

        ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why tough signior?

        MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal?

        ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton

          appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

        MOTH. And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old

          time, which we may name tough.

        ARMADO. Pretty and apt.

        MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt,

      and

          my saying pretty?

        ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little.

        MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

        ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick.

        MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master?

        ARMADO. In thy condign praise.

        MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise.

        ARMADO. that an eel is ingenious?

        MOTH. That an eel is quick.

        ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers; thou heat'st my

      blood.

        MOTH. I am answer'd, sir.

        ARMADO. I love not to be cross'd.

        MOTH. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not

      him.

        ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke.

        MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir.

        ARMADO. Impossible.

        MOTH. How many is one thrice told?

        ARMADO. I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a

      tapster.

        MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

        ARMADO. I confess both; they are both the varnish of a complete

          man.

        MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of

      deuce-ace

          amounts to.

        ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two.

        MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three.

        ARMADO. True.

        MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is

      three

          studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put

      'years'

          to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the

          dancing horse will tell you.

        ARMADO. A most fine figure!

        MOTH. [Aside] To prove you a cipher.

        ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love. And as it is base

      for

          a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If

      drawing

          my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me

      from

          the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner,

      and

          ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devis'd curtsy. I

          think scorn to sigh; methinks I should out-swear Cupid.

      Comfort

          me, boy; what great men have been in love?

        MOTH. Hercules, master.

        ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name

      more;

          and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and

      carriage.

        MOTH. Samson, master; he was a man of good carriage, great

          carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a

          porter; and he was in love.

        ARMADO. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel

      thee

          in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am

      in

          love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth?

        MOTH. A woman, master.

        ARMADO. Of what complexion?

        MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the

          four.

        ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion.

        MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir.

        ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions?

        MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

        ARMADO. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a

      love

          of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He

          surely affected her for her wit.

        MOTH. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit.

        ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red.

        MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask'd under such

          colours.

        ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant.

        MOTH. My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me!

        ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and

      pathetical!

        MOTH. If she be made of white and red,

                     Her faults will ne'er be known;

                   For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,

                     And fears by pale white shown.

                   Then