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Go not so fast: perhaps I am but come To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.

And if thou dost, I'll bear it all so meekly, That thou wilt say within thy cunning self, "This man, in truth, is made to be a husband."

It were no cunning but a foolish self Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant Would laugh most certainly within himself, On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion Joined to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.

Nay, do not twit me now with all the freaks, And levities, and gambols charged upon me By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood. I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt, And all the while as blithe o' heart as he. I have as many fashions and demeanours, As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,— I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.

I hear a noise.

Only the wind that moves yon creaking door.