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The passion of loud laughter never shed.

The.

What are they that do play it?

Phil.

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,

Which never labor’d in their minds till now;

And now have toiled their unbreathed memories

With this same play, against your nuptial.

The.

And we will hear it.

Phil.

No, my noble lord,

It is not for you. I have heard it over,

And it is nothing, nothing in the world;

Unless you can find sport in their intents,

Extremely stretch’d, and conn’d with cruel pain,

To do you service.

The.

I will hear that play;

For never any thing can be amiss,

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go bring them in; and take your places, ladies.

[Exit Philostrate.]

Hip.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged,

And duty in his service perishing.

The.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hip.

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

The.

The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake;

And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect