ACT III.

SCENE, a Pavilion in the Park near the Palace.

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

PRINCESS.

7AS that the King, that fpurr'd his horfe fo hard Against the fteep uprising 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 murderer in ?
For. Here by, upon the hedge 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 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 woe!
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 herefy 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 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 praise alone now seek to fpill

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

Boyet. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. 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 higheft?
Prin. The thickeft and the talleft.

Coft. The thickeft and the talleft? it is fo, truth is truth. An your wafte, miftrefs, were as flender as my wit, One o' thefe 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 a letter from Monfieur Biron, to one Lady Rofaline.

Prin. Othy letter, thy letter: he's a good friend of mine. Stand afide, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; (19)

(19) Boyet, you can carvez

Break

Break up this capon.] i. e. open this letter. Our poet ufes this metaphor, as the French do their poulet; which fignifies both a young fowl, and a love letter. Poulet, amatoriæ litteræ ; fays Richelet and quotes from Voiture, repondre au plus obligeant pou let du monde; to reply to the most obliging letter in the world. The Italians ufe the fame manner of expreffion, when they call a love-epiftle, una pollicetta amorofa. I ow'd the hint of this equivocal ufe of the word to my ingenious friend Mr. Bishop. I obferve in Weftwardbee, a comedy written.

Break up this capon.

Boyet. 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.

Boyet reads.

Y heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible;

thou art lovely; more fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself; have commiferation on thy heroical vaffal. The magnanimous and moft illuftrate King Cophetua fet 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 bafe 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 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 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 comparifon) 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 exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles: for thyfelf? 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 Adriano de Armado.

written by a contemporary with our author, that one of thefe letters is likewife call'd a wild fowl. Act. 2. Sc. 2.

At the fkirt of that sheet in black work is wrought his name. Break not up the wild-fowl till anon, and then feed upon him in private.

Thus

Thus doft thou hear the Nemean lion roar
'Gainst 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 ftrive (poor foul) what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repafture for his den.

[letter! Prin. What plume of feathers is he, that indited this What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better? Boyet. I am much deceiv'd, but I remember the file. Prin. Elfe your memory is bad, going o'er it ere while. Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniardthat keeps here in court, A phantafme, 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'ft thou give it?

Coft. From my Lord to my Lady.

Prin. From which Lord to which Lady?

Coft. From my Lord Berown, a good master of mine, To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline.

Prin.Thou haft miftaken his letter. Come, Lords, away. Here, fweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day.

[Exit Princefs attended. Boyet. Who is the fhooter? who is the fhooter? Roja. Shall I teach you to know? Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.

off.

Rofa. Why, fhe that bears the bow. Finely put 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, yourself; come not near. Finely put on, indeed.

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

Boyet. But fhe herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?' Rofa. Shall I 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.

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

Boyet. An I cannot, cannot, cannot ; An I cannot, another can.

[Exit Rofa. 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. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. Coft. Then will fhe get the upshot by cleaving the pin. Mar.Come,come, you talk greafily; your lips grow foul. Coft. She's too hard for you at pricks, Sir, challenge her to bowl.

owl.

Boyet. I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good [Exeunt all but Coftard. Coft. By my foul, a fwain; a moft fimple clown. Lord, Lord! how the Ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, moft fweet jefts, moft incony vulgar wit, When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, fo fit.

Armado o' th' one fide,- -O, a most 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

fwear :

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

[Exit Coftard.

[Shouting within.

Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Sir Nathaniel.

Nath. Very reverend fport, truly; and done in the teftimony of a good confcience.

Hol. The deer was (as you know) fanguis, in blood;