Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Enter BEATRICE.
BEAT.
Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
BENE.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
BEAT.
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.
BENE.
You take pleasure, then, in the message?
BEAT.
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.
