_Helen_. I'm weary wandering from room to room; A castle after all is but a house-- The dullest one when lacking company. Were I at home, I could be company Unto myself. I see not Master Walter, He's ever with his ward. I see not her. By Master Walter's will she bides alone. My father stops in town. I can't see him. My cousin makes his books his company. I'll go to bed and sleep. No--I'll stay up And plague my cousin into making love! For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. How dull he is that hath not sense to see What lies before him, and he'd like to find! I'll change my treatment of him. Cross him, where Before I used to humour him. He comes, Poring upon a book. What's that you read? [Enter MODUS.] _Mod_. Latin, sweet cousin. _Helen_. 'Tis a naughty tongue, I fear, and teaches men to lie. _Mod_. To lie! _Helen_. You study it. You call your cousin sweet, And treat her as you would a crab. As sour 'Twould seem you think her, as you covet her! Why how the monster stares, and looks about! You construe Latin, and can't construe that! _Mod_. I never studied women. _Helen_. No; nor men. Else would you better know their ways: nor read In presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.] _Mod_. Right you say, And well you served me, cousin, so to strike The volume from my hand. I own my fault; So please you--may I pick it up again? I'll put it in my pocket! _Helen_. Pick it up. He fears me as I were his grandmother! What is the book? _Mod_. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love. _Helen_. That Ovid was a fool! _Mod_. In what? _Helen_. In that: To call that thing an art, which art is none. _Mod_. And is not love an art? _Helen_. Are you a fool, As well as Ovid? Love an art! No art But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes With neither! Is't to hoard such grain as that, You went to college? Better stay at home, And study homely English. _Mod_. Nay, you know not The argument. _Helen_. I don't? I know it better Than ever Ovid did! The face--the form-- The heart--the mind we fancy, cousin; that's The argument! Why, cousin, you know nothing. Suppose a lady were in love with thee: Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out? Couldst find it out, wast thou in love thyself? Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? I could, that never read him! You begin With melancholy; then to sadness; then To sickness; then to dying--but not die! She would not let thee, were she of my mind! She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope; From hope to confidence; from confidence To boldness;--then you'd speak; at first entreat; Then urge; then flout; then argue; then enforce; Make prisoner of her hand; besiege her waist; Threaten her lips with storming; keep thy word And carry her! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid! Why cousin, are you frightened, that you stand As you were stricken dumb? The case is clear, You are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle. You care too much for blows!