SCENA II.

_Enter_ Antony, Dolabella, Sceva.

_Dol._ Nay there's no rowsing him: he is bewitch'd sure,
His noble blood curdled, and cold within him;
Grown now a womans warriour.

_Sce._ And a tall one:
Studies her fortifications, and her breaches,
And how he may advance his ram to batter
The Bullwork of her chastitie.

_Ant._ Be not too angry,
For by this light, the woman's a rare woman,
A Lady of that catching youth, and beauty,
That unmatch'd sweetness--

_Dol._ But why should he be fool'd so?
Let her be what she will, why should his wisdom,
His age, and honour--

_Ant._ Say it were your own case,
Or mine, or any mans, that has heat in him:
'Tis true at this time when he has no promise
Of more security than his sword can cut through,
I do not hold it so discreet: but a good face, Gentlemen,
And eyes that are the winningst Orators:
A youth that opens like perpetual spring,
And to all these, a tongue that can deliver