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Leon. Where is but a humor or a worm.

Bene. Well, every one [can] master a grief but he that has it.

Claud. Yet say I, he is in love.

D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises—as to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to- morrow, or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs. ’A brushes his hat a’ mornings; what should that bode?

D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?

Claud. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuff’d tennis-balls.

Leon. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

D. Pedro. Nay, ’a rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out by that?