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BEATRICE.

Go not so fast: perhaps I am but come

To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.

MAURICE.

And if thou dost, I'll bear it all so meekly,

That thou wilt say within thy cunning self,
"This man, in truth, is made to be a husband."

BEATRICE.

It were no cunning but a foolish self

Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant
Would laugh most certainly within himself,
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion
Joined to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.

MAURICE.

Nay, do not twit me now with all the freaks,

And levities, and gambols charged upon me
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood.
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt,
And all the while as blithe o' heart as he.
I have as many fashions and demeanours,
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,—
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.

BEATRICE.

I hear a noise.

MAURICE.

Only the wind that moves yon creaking door.