He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come 'cross his humour. Faith, he does. I warrant you that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done Without the taste of danger and reproof. But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame, And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite besides his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault. Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood- And that's the dearest grace it renders you- Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain; The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation. Hot. Well, I am school'd. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. Enter Glendower with the Ladies. Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me- My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you; She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars. Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily. Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same. Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon. The Lady speaks in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, In such a Barley should I answer thee. The Lady again in Welsh. I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation. But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r, With ravishing division, to her lute. Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. The Lady speaks again in Welsh. Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this! Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden progress in the East. Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing. By that time will our book, I think, be drawn. Glend. Do so,