ACT IV. SCENE I

A Pavilion in the Park near the Palace.

Enter the Princefs, Rosaline, Maria, Catherine, Lords, Attendants, and a Forefter.

W

PRINCESS.

AS that the King that spur'd his horse so hard
Against the steep uprifing of the hill?

Boyet. I know not, but I think it was not he.
Prin. Who e'er he was, he fhew'd a mounting
mind.

Well lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch,

On Saturday we will return to France.
Then Forefter, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murtherer in?
For. Hereby upon the edge of yonder coppice,
A ftand where you may make the fairest shoot. *

the fairest fhoot.

Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak'ft the fairest shoot.

For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not fo.

Prin. What, what? first praise me, then again fay no

O fhort-liv'd pride! not fair? alack for wo!

For. Yes madam, fair.

Prin. Nay, never paint me now,

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glafs, take this for telling true;
Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
Prin. See, fee, my beauty will be fav'd by merit.
O herefie in fair, fit for thefe days,

A giving hand, though foul, fhall have fair praise.
But come, the bow; now mercy goes to kill,
And fhooting well, is then accounted ill.

7

Eater

Thus

Enter Coftard.

Boyet. Here comes a member of the common-wealth.* Coft. I have a letter from Monfieur Biron, to one lady Rosaline. Prin. Othy letter, thy letter: he's a good friend of mine. Stand afide, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve,

Break up this capon.

Boyet. I am bound to ferve.

This letter is mistook, it importeth none here;

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin. We will read it, I fwear.

Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

Boyet reads.

BY heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true that

thou art beauteous; truth it self that thou art lovely; more

Thus will I fave my credit in the shoot,

Not wounding, pity would not let me do't:
If wounding, then it was to fhew my skill,
That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
And out of queftion, fo it is fometimes,
Glory grows guilty of detefted crimes,

When for fame's fake, for praife, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart.

As I for praise alone now feck to spill

The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

Boyet. Do not curft wives hold that felf-foveraignty Only for praise fake, when they strive to be

Lords o'er their lords?

Prin. Only for praife, and praise we may

To any lady that fubdues her lord.

Enter Coftard.

common-wealth.

afford

Coft. God dig-you-den all, pray you which is the head lady?
Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the reft that have no heads.
Coft. Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

Prin. The thickest and the tallest.

Coft. The thickeft and the talleft? it is fo, truth is truth.

An your wafte, miftrefs, were as flender as my wit,

One a these maids girdles for your wafte fhould be fit.

Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickeft here.
Prin. What's your will, Sir? what's your will?

Coft. I have, &c.

fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth it felf; have commiferation on thy heroical vaffal. The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly fay, veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar, (O base and obfcure vulgar!) videlicet, he came, saw and overcame; he came one, faw two, overcame three. Who came? the King. Why did he come? to fee. Why did he fee? to overcome. To whom came he? to the beggar. What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclufion is victory; on whose fide? the King's; the captive is inrich❜d: on whose fide? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose fide? the King's? no, on both in one, or one in both: I am the King, (for fo ftands the comparison) thou the beggar, for so witneffeth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What fhalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thy felf? me. Thus expecting thy reply, I prophane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.

Thine in the dearest defign of industry,

Don Adriana de Armado.

Thus doft thou hear the Nemean lion roar

'Gainft thee thou lamb, that ftandeft as his prey? Submiffive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou strive (poor foul) what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.

Prin. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better? Boyet. I am much deceived, but I remember the ftile. Prin. Elle your memory is bad, going o'er it ere while.

Boyet.

Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court, A phantasme, a monarcho, and one that makes sport

To the Prince and his book-mates.

Prin. Thou fellow, a word.

Who gave thee this letter?

Coft. I told you, my lord.

Prin. To whom should'st thou give it?

Coft. From my lord to my lady.

Prin. From which lord to which lady?

Coft. From my lord Berown, a good mafter of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.

Prin. Thou haft mistaken his letter. Come lords away. Here sweet, put up this, 'twill be thine another day.

-another day.

Boyet. Who is the fhooter? who is the fhooter?
Rofa. Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.

Rofa. Why the that bears the bow. Finely put off.

Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on.

Rofa. Well then, I am the shooter.

Boyet. And who is your Deer?

Rofa. If we chufe by horns, your felf; come not near.

Finely put on indeed.

[Exe.

SCENE

Mar. You ftill wrangle with her, Boyet, and the ftrikes at the brow.

Boyet. But the her felf is hit lower. Have I hit her now?

Rofa. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King

Pippin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it.

Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.

Rofa. Thou can'ft not hit it, hit it, hit it.

Thou can'ft not hit it, my good man.

Boyet. I cannot, cannot, cannot.

And I cannot, another can.

Coft. By my troth most pleasant, how both did fit it.

Mar. A mark marvellous well fhot; for they both did hit it.
Boyet. A mark, O mark but that mark! a mark, fays my lady.
Let the mark have a prick in't, to meet at, if it may be.
Mar. Wide o'th' bow hand, i'faith your hand is out.
Coft. Indeed a' muft fhoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.
Boyet. And if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
Coft. Then will the get the upfhot by cleaving the pin.
Mar. Come, come, you talk greafily, your lips grow foul.

[Exit Rofa.

Coft.

Nath.

SCENE II.

[Shoot within.]

Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Nathaniel.

VE

ERY reverent fport truly, and done in the testimony of a good conscience.

Hol. The deer was (as you know) fanguis in blood, ripe as a pomwater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of Coelo the sky, the welkin, the heav'n, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of Terra, the foil, the land, the earth.

Nath. Truly mafter Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied like a scholar at the leaft: but, Sir, I affure ye, it was a buck of the first head.

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

Dull. 'Twas not a haud credo, 'twas a pricket.

Hol. Moft barbarous intimation; yet a kind of infinuation, as it were in via, in way of explication facere, as it were replication, or rather oftentare, to fhow as it were his inclination after his undreffed, unpolifhed, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or rathereft unconfirmed fashion, to infert again my haud credo for a deer.

Dull. I faid the deer was not a haud credo, 'twas a pricket. Hol. Twice fod fimplicity, bis coctus; O thou monster ignorance, how deformed doft thou look?

Coft. She's too hard for you at pricks, Sir, challenge her to bowl.
Boyet. I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good owl.
Coft. By my foul a fwain, a moft fimple clown.

Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down.

Ο

O' my troth mosft fweet jefts, moft incony vulgar wit,

When it comes fo fmoothly off, fo obfcenely, as it were, fo fit.

Armado o'th' one fide, O a most dainty man.

To see him kifs his hand, and how moft sweetly he will fwear:

To fee him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan.

And his page o' t'other fide, that handful of wit,
Ah heav'ns! it is a moft pathetical nit.

Nath.

Sowla, fowla!

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.