and she's a great lubberly boy: if it had not been i' the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir, and 't is a post-master's boy. Page. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. Slen. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl: if I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him.* Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you, how you should know my daughter by her garments? Slen. I went to her in white, and cried, "mum," and she cried "budget," as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a post-master's boy. Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; and indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. Enter Doctor CAIUS. Caius. Vere is mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garçon, a boy; un paisan, by gar, a boy: it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened. Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green? Caius. Ay, by gar, and 't is a boy: by gar, I'll raise all Windsor. [Exit CAIUS. Ford. This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? Page. My heart misgives me. Here comes master Fenton. Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE. How now, master Fenton ! Anne. Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon! Page. Now, mistress; how chance you went not with master Slender? Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doctor maid? You would have married her most shamefully, Are now so sure, that nothing can dissolve us. Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state: Fal. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. Page. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy. What cannot be eschew'd, must be embrac❜d. Master Fenton, Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chas'd. Ford. Let it be so. Sir John, To master Brook you yet shall hold your word; [Exeunt. THE POEMS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. VENUS AND ADONIS. EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses: And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety, Making them red and pale with fresh variety; Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, The studded bridle on a ragged bough Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, So soon was she along, as he was down, He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss; Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin, Forc'd to content, but never to obey, Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, Look how a bird lies tangled in a net, Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret, Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale; Still is he sullen, still he lowers and frets, Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; Upon this promise did he raise his chin, |