This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.
Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel
out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller:
you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the
heraldry of your birth and virtue gives you commission. You are
not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you.
Good, very good, it is so then. — Good, very good; let it
be concealed awhile.
Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
What's the matter, sweet heart?
Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,
I will not bed her.
What, what, sweet heart?
O my Parolles, they have married me! —
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
The tread of a man's foot: — to the wars!
There's letters from my mother; what the import is
I know not yet.
Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!
He wears his honour in a box unseen
That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home,
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions!
France is a stable; we that dwell in't, jades;
Therefore, to the war!
It shall be so; I'll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the king
That which I durst not speak: his present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields
Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife
To the dark house and the detested wife.
Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?
Go with me to my chamber and advise me.
I'll send her straight away: to-morrow
I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:
A young man married is a man that's marr'd:
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:
The king has done you wrong: but, hush, 'tis so.