At Rossillion, Lavatch, the fool, delivers a letter from Bertram to
It hath happened all as I would have had it, save
that he comes not along with her.
By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very
By what observance, I pray you?
Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the
ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his
teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of
melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.
Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.
[Opening a letter]
I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our
old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing
like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court:
the brains of my Cupid's knocked out, and I begin to
love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.
What have we here?
E'en that you have