ANGELO

Slave? I know you for the Dukes son, but I know noc ause of quarrel, or this base reproach. Wherein? If for her love you come to kill me; here I'll point you to a door where you may enter and fetch out a loathed life. Let him come, I owe her all; And that debt will I pay her gladly. But if on any other fire of rage; You thirst to drink my blood, here I defy You, and your malice; and return the villain Into your throat. I do but guard my life (my Lord) from danger. My Lords, I take my last leave of you all; Of love, and Fortune's— Dear friend, I should both wrong my faith & Fortune's, To make'em thus dance Antics; I shall never play the dissembler. If thus disguised I'm taken all the physic in the world Cannot prolong my life. How are my beard and hair? I will on then, In France I long have lived, And know the Garb Of the French-Mounte-bankes, whose apish gesture, Although in them I hold ridiculous, My self shall practice. I thank thee noble friend; let's then to court. The pangs a lover suffers are but short. Be me trat me Lord, I find her a very bade lady, & no well. By my tra' and fa'my Lord, me no point can play The hound, and fawn upon de most puissant Roy in de world; A Frenchman bear the brave mind for that. Me gram tank you, now for de malady of de Princess, Me one two, tre time, feel her pulse, and ron up and down all De oder parts of her body, and find noting but that She be trobla with le gran desire of de man. A my trat it's verament, she longam to do some ting in Love uponle gentle home. All tings possibela me fallen undergo, me would read Gallen, Hipocratus, Avicenna, but no point can peek out le remedy for de Madam in de briars of love. Aim, trat not worth a louse, only in my peregrination about le grand gloabe of de world, me find out a fine trick for make a de man, and Woman do, that is tickla in love. To be curam, and all whole, Admirable well. Me have had under my fingera, many brave vench, and most Noble gentle Dams, that have be much troubla, upon de wild vorme in de tail for de man. And be my tram my Lord, by experement me find that de heart of de man; you understanda me. We we, de heart of de man being all dry as peppera. And rub upon de ting (what you call it) fallen make it moulder all to crumble and dust. Ee by my tram you say well, rub a de men dry Art upon de Grater, and drink de powder in de pot le Vine, by de Gen tle-voman, and by gars-blor, she present amently kick up de heel at de man she lovam. No point more remembram, but cry out le French Po up on le varlet. Begar, as my self hate le puz-cat, cry mew at my shin; and will have de rambling a de gut, for de other gentle home. Begar me hope so, and derfore my Lord apply le despe rate Medicine, to le perilous malady, and have dis Angelo be cut in de troat, and be man-slaughtered. We, we. We, we, we. Knocka de pate down begar. No matera for that; for-two tree four crown, dar be Rascals fallen run him in on de backe-shide. Pray my lor' suffera le Princess and me for be in private, Le Doctor uses for toucha do Ooman— O my Baptista. And it will strike me dead, With a most sudden and Invisible blow. How? It's but a wrack at most, O on what boisterous Seas is True love tossed! I pray you hush all, a little hush, le fair Lady by he own vo unter disposition, has take a ting that is of such a grand operation, it shall make a de stone for sleep. 'Tis not your fcurvie English Poppy, nor Mandragon, nor a ting so danger as Oppium, but 'tis de brave ting a de world, for knock a de brain asleep. Peace, be gor it is snore and snore, two mile long; now if your grace will please for procure Music, be restore as brave as de fish. Makea no noise, but bring in de Fiddlers, and play sweet De grand French Po stopa de troat, pray void le Shambera. Baptista, see the door fast, watch that narrowly. She does but slumber, Fiametta, Love. Look up, I am not he, but Angelo? Angelo himself, Who with one soot treads on the throat of death, While tother steps to embrace thee, thus ith' shape Of a French Doctor. Hear me. Let not Joy confound our happiness, I am but dead, If it be known I am here. Be wise deer heart; see here the best of men, Faithful Baptista——— Sweet Fyametta hear me. For you shall hence with us. Undone, undone. Me Lor, be all mad, le brain crow, and run whirabout Like de windmill sail, pardon a moi, por quoi my sweet Ma dam, pardon your povera Doctor. I do pray Artely, Madam. Par-ma-soy all French be-gor sheebe mad as the moon. Begar her imaginashon be out a de vitts, and so dazzle de two nyes, and come down so into de belly, and possibla for make her tinke me or you to be le gentleman she lovea, and so she takea my man for a Iack-a-nape, me know not who. Povera garshon a my trat. Dar be too much devil in de body all ready be my trat my Lor, me no stay here for ten hundred hundred Corona's, she cry upon me it's Master Angelo, you tink so not one and two time, but a tired time, you smell a me out; And so cutta my troat; adue my Lor. In de pot a vine, we, very fine. How blows it now? Poor love, thou still art struck with thine own fate; My life hangs at a thread, friend I must fly. I will take sanctuary, I know a reverend Friar, in whose cell I'll lurk till storms blow over; If women knew What men feel for them, None their scorns should rue. Whom seek you Lady? Yes. Yes. Yes, at the very soul! No. How can I love you Lady? I have climed too many of such fruitless trees. Yes, and have pulled the apples. And when I touched they, found they turned to dust. Why should you love me? I have changed my pleasure In beauteous dams, more then I have my dreams, Four in one night. Now find I, that a Loversheart last die. I now must stand your arrows, but you shoot Against a breast as innocent— Your patience Sir, Hear me pray. Or if not me, hear then this reverend man. All that we stand in fear of is your frown. We. Why should you love me? I am but a Tomb, Gay outside, but within, rotten and foul.