Methinks, Being so few and well disposed, they show Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set, Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a tiger. He’s grey-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs, Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier. About his head he wears the winner’s oak, And in it stuck the favour of his lady. His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver.

Messenger Monologue from The Two Noble Kinsmen

Rehearse Messenger's monologue