Iago. I Madam

Des. I am not merry: but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
Come, how would'st thou praise me?
Iago. I am about it, but indeed my inuention comes
from my pate, as Birdlyme do's from Freeze, it pluckes
out Braines and all. But my Muse labours, and thus she
is deliuer'd.
If she be faire, and wise: fairenesse, and wit,
The ones for vse, the other vseth it

Des. Well prais'd:
How if she be Blacke and Witty?
Iago. If she be blacke, and thereto haue a wit,
She'le find a white, that shall her blacknesse fit

Des. Worse, and worse.
Aemil. How if Faire, and Foolish?
Iago. She neuer yet was foolish that was faire,
For euen her folly helpt her to an heire

Desde. These are old fond Paradoxes, to make Fooles
laugh i'th' Alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou
for her that's Foule, and Foolish

Iago. There's none so foule and foolish thereunto,
But do's foule pranks, which faire, and wise-ones do

Desde. Oh heauy ignorance: thou praisest the worst