Jaq. More, more, I prithee, more. 5
Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
Jaq. I thank it. More! I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More! I prithee, more.
Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.
Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you them stanzos?
Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. 10
Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?
Ami. More at your request than to please myself.
Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.
Ami. Well, I’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you.
Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble; come.