The one for ever earn’d a royal husband;
The other for some while a friend. Too hot, too hot!
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;
But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent; ‘t may, I grant;
But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practised smiles,
As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as ’twere
The mort o’ the deer; O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius,
Art thou my boy? Ay, my good lord. I’ fecks!
Why, that’s my bawcock. What, hast smutch’d thy nose?
They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat.
Still virginalling Upon his palm!
How now, you wanton calf! Art thou my calf? Yes, if you will, my lord. Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots that
I have, To be full like me: yet they say we are
Almost as like as eggs; women say so, That will say anything but were they false
As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes
No bourn ‘twixt his and mine, yet were it true
To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, Look on me with your welkin eye: Sweet villain! Most dear’st! My collop!
Can thy dam? May’t be? Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: Thou dost make possible things not so held,
Communicatest with dreams; how can this be?
With what’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing: then ’tis very credent
Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,
And that beyond commission, and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains
And hardening of my brows.