Monologues for Men
THER.
How now, Thersites? What, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury?
THER.
With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad,
MAL.
M.O.A.I. This simulation is not as the former; and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name.
SIR TO.
Gentleman, God save thee! That defense thou hast, betake thee to’t.
SPEED.
Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn’d, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms,
LAUNCE.
Nay, ’twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault.
LAUNCE.
When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard:
Page 13 of 15