A street.
What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?
The date is out of such prolixity: We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But let them measure us by what they will; We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound.