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Bir. O!—And I, forfooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip.

A very beadle to a humorous figh;
critic; nay, a night-watch conftable;
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal fo magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;
This fignior Junio's giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
Regent of love-rhimes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed fovereign of fighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator, and great general

Of trotting paritors, O my little heart!—
And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
What? I! I love! I fue! I feek a wife!
A woman that is like a German clock,
Still a repairing; ever out of frame;
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd that it may ftill go right?
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:
And I to figh for her! to watch for her!
Το 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. [Exit.

ACT

ACT IV.

SCENE I. A Pavilion in the Park near the Polace.

Enter the Princefs, ROSALINE, MARIA, CATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forefter.

Princess.

WAS that the king, that fpurr'd his horse fo hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?

Boy. I know not; but, I think, it was not he.
Prin. Whoe'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 murderer in?
For. Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
A ftand, where you may make the fairest shoot.
Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou fpeak'it, the fairest fhoot.
For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not fo.
Prin. What, what? first praise me, and again fay,
O fhort-liv'd pride! Not fair? alack for woe! [no?
For, Yes, madam, fair.

Prin. Nay, never paint me now;

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true;
[Giving him money.
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 herely

O herefy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, fhall have fair praise.-
But come, the bow :-Now mercy goes to kill,
And shooting 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 fkill,
That more for praise, 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 spill

The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.
Boy. 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 praise: and praise we may afford To any lady that fubdues a lord.

Enter COSTARD.

Prin. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. Cof. 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.

Cofl. Which is the greateft lady, the highest?
Prin. The thickeft, and the tallest.

Coft. The thickest and the tallest! it is fo; truth is truth.

An your waist, miftrefs, were as flender as my wit, One of thefe maids' girdles for your waift fhould be fit. Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest

here.

Prin. What's your will, fir? what's your will? Cof. 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.

Boy. I am bound to serve.

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.

Boy. [Reads.] By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely: More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiferation on thy heroical vaffal! The magnanimous and most illuftrate king Cophetua fet eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and be it was that might rightly fay, veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar (O bafe and obfcure vulgar!) videlicet, he came, far, and overcame he came, one; saw, 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 faw he? the beggar; Who overcame he? the beggar: The conclufion is victory; On whofe fide? the king's: the captive is enrich'd; On whofe 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 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 shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; For tittles? tiles; For thyself? me. Thus,

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 design of industry,

DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.

Thus doft thou hear the Nemean lion roar

'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that ftandest 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 weather-cock? Did you ever hear better?

Boy. I am much deceived, but I remember the stile. Prin. Elfe your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.

Boy. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here

in court;

A phantafm, 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 Biron, a good master of mine, To a lady of France, that he call'd Rofaline.

Prin. Thou haft mistaken his letter. Come, lords,

away.

Here, fweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day. [Exeunt Princefs, and Train.

D

Boy.

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