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Arm.

I say lead is slow.

Moth.

You are too swift, sir, to say so.

Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun?

Arm.

Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

He reputes me a cannon, and the bullet, that’s he;

I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.

Thump then, and I flee.

[Exit.]

Arm.

A most acute juvenal, volable and free of grace!

By thy favor, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:

Most rude melancholy, valor gives thee place.

My herald is return’d.

Enter Page [Moth] and Clown [Costard].

Moth.

A wonder, master! Here’s a costard broken in a shin.

Arm.

Some enigma, some riddle—come, thy l’envoy—begin.

Cost. No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy, no salve in the mail, sir. O sir, plantan, a plain plantan; no l’envoy, no l’envoy, no salve, sir, but a plantan!

Arm. By virtue thou enforcest laughter—thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling—O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l’envoy, and the word ‘l’envoy’ for a salve?

Moth.

Do the wise think them other? is not l’envoy a salve?