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16

Is he so ruthless, then?

Ay, in the field. But in your hall or bower, where ladies smile, Who is more gentle? Thus it often is: A lady feels not on her soldier's hand, That softly presses her more gentle palm, The deaths which it has dealt.

I'm sure, were but thy rapier like thy tongue The count must have in thee an able second.

I may not boast; but doth my circled finger More rudely press thy snowy arm, fair maid, Because this graven jewel was the gift Of a great Moorish princess, whose rude foe I slew before her eyes?

Some angry puppy that with snarling mouth Snapp'd at her robe or sandal'd heels, belike.

Nay, by my faith! a foe in worth mine equal.

That I will grant thee readily. But say, How far behind thee is the noble count?