To pray for her! go to: it is a plague

That Cupid will impofe for my neglect
Of his almighty, dreadful, little, might.

Well, I will love, write, figh, pray, fue and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and fome Joan,

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A Pavilion in the Park near the Palace.

[Exit.

Enter the Princess, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine, Lords, Attendants, and a Forefter.

Prin.

WAS

AS that the King that fpurr'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 fhall 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. Hard by, upon the edge of yonder coppice,
A ftand, where you may make the fairest fhoot. *

..... the faireft fhoot.

Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou fpeak'ft the fairest fhoot.
For. Pardon me, Madam, for I meant not fo.
Prin. What, what? firft praife me, then again say np?
O fhort-liv'd pride! not fair? alack for wo!

For. Yes, Madam, fair.

Prin. Nay, never paint me now,

Where fair is not, praife 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 lav'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.
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 praife than purpose meant to kill.
And out of question, 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 praife alone now feek to fpill

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

Enter Coftard.

Boyet. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. * Coft. I have a letter from Monfieur Biron, to one lady Rofaline.

Prin. O thy 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 serve.

This letter is miftook, it importeth none here;
It is writ to Jaquenetta,

Prin. We will read it, I swear.

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

By heav'n, that thou art fair, is moft infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth it self, that thou art lovely; more fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth it felf; have commiferation on thy heroical vaffal, The magnanimous and most illuftrate King Copbetua fet eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelopbon; 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, faw, 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

Boyet. Do not curft wives hold that felf-fovereignty

Only for praife' fake, when they ftrive to be

Lords o'er their lords?

Prin. Only for praife, and praise we may afford To any lady that fubdues her lord.

Enter Coltard.

common wealth.

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

Prin. The thickest and the talleft.

Ceft. The thickeit and the talleft? it is fo, truth is truth.

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

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

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

Coff. I have, &c.

+ Meaning the letter, as poulet in French fignifies both a chicken and a love-letter.

whom

whom came he? to the beggar. What faw he? the beggar. Whom overcame he? the beggar. The conclufion is victory; on whofe fide? the King's; the captive is inrich❜d: on whofe fide? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whofe 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 fo witneffeth thy lowlinefs. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could.. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What fhalt thou, éxchange 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 deareft defign of industry,

Don Adriano de Armado.

Thus doft thou hear the Nemean lion roar

'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standeft as his prey; Submiffive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou ftrive (poor foul) what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repafture 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. Elfe your memory is bad, going o'er it ere while.
Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,
A phantafme, a mammúccio, and one that makes fport
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 fhould't 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 Rofaline.

OTHE

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

another day.

VOL. II.

Boyet. Who is the fhooter? who is the fhooter?

Cc

[Exeunt

Rof.

SCENE II. [Shoot within.]

Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Nathaniel. Nath. Very reverent sport truly, and done in the tefti. mony of a good confcience.

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 fky, the welkin, the heav'n, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of Terra, the foil, the land, the earth.

Rof. Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.

Rof. Why, the that bears the bow. Finely put off. Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou ma:ry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year mifcariy. Finely put on.

Rof. Well then, I am the fhooter.

Boyet. And who is your Deer?

Ref. If we choose by horns, your self; come not near. Finely put on indeed.

Mar. You ftill wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. Boyet. But the her felf is hit lower. Have I hit her now?

Rof. Shall 1 come upon thee with an old faying, 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.

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

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

Boyet. I cannot, cannot, cannot.

An I cannot, another can.

Coft. By my troth, moft pleafant, how both did fit it.

[Exit. RoL

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.
Ct. Then will the get the upfhot by cleaving the pin.
Mar. Come, conie, you talk greafily, your lips grow foul.
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.
Ct. By my foul, a fwain, a moft fimple clown.

Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!
'my troth, moft fweet jefts, most incony vulgar wit,

When it comes to fmoothly off, lo obfcenely, as it were, fo fit.
Armado o'th' one fide, O, a moft dainty man.

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

To fee him kifs his hand, and how moft fweetly he will fwears
And his page o' th' other fide, that handful of wit,
Ah, heav'ns! it is a moft pathetical nit,

Sowla, fowla !

Nath

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

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, baud credo.

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

Hol. Moft barbarous intimation; yet a kind of infinua→ tion, as it were in via, in way of explication; facere, as it were, replication; or rather oftentare, to show as it were his inclination after his undreffed, unpolifhed, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or rathereft unconfirmed fashion, to infert again my baud credo for a deer. -Dull. I faid, the deer was not a baud credo, 'twas a pricket.

Hol. Twice fod fimplicity, bis cotus; O thou monster ignorance, how deformed doft thou look!

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed on the dainties that are bred in a book. He hath not eat paper as it were; he hath not drunk ink. His intellect is not replenished. He is only an animal, only fenfible in the duller parts; And fuch barren plants are fet before us, that we thankful fhould be,

For those parts which we tafte and feel do fructifie in us more than he.

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indifcreet, or a

fool;

J

So were there a patch fet on learning, to fee him in a school.
But omne bene fay I, being of an old father's mind,
Many can brook the weather, that love not the wind.

Dull. You two are book-men; can you tell by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet?

Hol, Dictynna, good-man Dull; Dictynna, good-man Dull.

Dull. What is Dictynna?

Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the Moon.

Hol. The moon was a month old when Adam was no

more.

And raught not to five weeks when he came to fivescore. Th' allufion holds in the exchange.

C c. 2

Dull