LADY. Ay, but the stoutest of you all that's here Would run from death and nimbly scud for fear. Now, by my troth, I pity these poor elves.[308]
SIR RALPH. Well, they have made us but bad sport to-day.
LADY. Yes, 'twas my sport to see them 'scape away.
WILL. I wish that I had been at one buck's fall.
LADY. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all.
WILL. A wood-man,[309] lady, but no tyrant I.
LADY. Yes, tyrant-like thou lov'st to see lives die.
SIR RALPH. Lady, no more: I do not like this luck, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I swear I will Stay here all night, but I a buck will kill.
LADY. All night! nay, good Sir Ralph Smith, do not so.
SIR RALPH. Content ye, lady. Will, go fetch my bow: A berry[310] of fair roes I saw to-day Down by the groves, and there I'll take my[311] stand, And shoot at one--God send a lucky hand!
LADY. Will ye not, then, Sir Ralph, go home with me?
SIR RALPH. No, but my men shall bear thee company.-- Sirs, man her home. Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to-night.-- Lady, farewell. Will, haste ye with the bow; I'll stay for thee here by the grove below.
WILL. I will; but 'twill be dark, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?
SIR RALPH. Why, halloo to me, and I will answer thee.
LADY. How willingly dost thou consent to go To fetch thy master that same killing bow!
WILL. Guilty of death I willing am in this, Because 'twas our ill-haps to-day to miss: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunter's sorrow. Come, lady, we'll have venison ere to-morrow.
PHIL. Come, Frank, now are we hard by the[312] house: But how now? Sad?
FRAN. No, to study how to woo thy sister.
PHIL. How, man? how to woo her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not he ashamed to woo. Thy cheeks not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratory can unfold [A] quick invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, As it shall ravish every maiden sense; For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, And being full stuff'd up with fallow wit And meadow-matter, ask'd the pretty maid How they sold corn last market-day with them, Saying, "Indeed, 'twas very dear with [us]." And, do ye hear, ye[313] had not need be so, For she[314] will, Francis, throughly[315] try your wit; Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current; Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels,[316] And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye. I cannot speak it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is!