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 What art thou, trow?—A man worth praise, perfay.— This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.— 'Tis a mule's age.—Art thou a boy still?—Nay.— Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting, Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?— Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, I can make out.—No more?—Nay, in no wise. Shall I begin again the count of these?— Thou art undone.—I will make shift to rise.— I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.—

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, Then might'st thou plead this pretext with thine heart; But if thou know not good from evil a whit, Either thy head is hard as stone to hit, Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content. What canst thou answer to this argument?—