Friday, December 12, 2008

A rascally yea-forsooth knave

But yesternight: when all athwart there came
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;

Such beastly shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done as may not be
Without much shame retold or spoken of. 

Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh'd
Thy maiden sword.

Colour her working with such deadly wounds
Nor could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly:
Then let not him be slander'd with revolt.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,

I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim'd
By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly unto this question that I ask:
Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at
the door: shall we be merry? But,
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns?

This is the deadly spite that angers me;
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

O, I am ignorance itself in this!

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