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Luc.

With words that in an honest suit might move.

First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

Adr.

Didst speak him fair?

Luc.

Have patience, I beseech.

Adr.

I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still,

My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.

He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,

Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless every where;

Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Luc.

Who would be jealous then of such a one?

No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.

Adr.

Ah, but I think him better than I say,

And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse:

Far from her nest the lapwing cries away;

My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

Enter Dromio [of] Syracusa.

S. Dro.

Here, go: the desk, the purse! [Sweat] now, make haste!

Luc.

How hast thou lost thy breath?

S. Dro.

By running fast.

Adr.

Where is thy master, Dromio? Is he well?

S. Dro.

No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell:

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;