Helen. No; nor men.
Else would you better know their ways: nor read
In presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.]

Mod. Right you say,
And well you served me, cousin, so to strike
The volume from my hand. I own my fault;
So please you--may I pick it up again?
I'll put it in my pocket!

Helen. Pick it up.
He fears me as I were his grandmother!
What is the book?

Mod. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love.

Helen. That Ovid was a fool!

Mod. In what?

Helen. In that:
To call that thing an art, which art is none.

Mod. And is not love an art?

Helen. Are you a fool,
As well as Ovid? Love an art! No art
But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes
With neither! Is't to hoard such grain as that,