Moth. Once to behold with your fun-beamed eyes With your fun-beamed eyes—

Boyet. They will not anfwer to that epithet; You were beft call it daughter-beamed eyes.

Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me out.
Biron. Is this your perfectness ? be gone, you rogue.
Rofa. What would thefe ftrangers? know their minds,
If they do fpeak our language, 'tis our will [Boyet.
That fome plain man recount their purposes.
Know, what they would.

Boyet. What would you with the Princefs?
Biron. Nothing, but peace and gentle vifitation.
Rofa. What would they, fay they?

Boyet. Nothing, but peace and gentle vifitation.
Rofa. Why, that they have; and bid them fo be gone.
Boyet. She fays, you have it; and you may be gone.
King. Say to her, we have measur'd
many miles,
To tread a measure with her on the grafs.

Boyet. They fay, that they have measur'd many a mile, To tread a measure with you on this grafs.

Rofa. It is not fo. Afk them, how many inches Is in one mile: if they have meafur'd many, The measure then of one is easily told.

Boyet. If to come hither you have meafur'd miles, And many miles; the Princefs bids you tell, How many inches doth fill up one mile ?

Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. Boyet. She hears herself.

Rofa. How many weary steps

Of many weary miles, you have o'ergone,
Are number'd in the travel of one mile?

Biron. We number nothing that we spend for you;

Our duty is fo rich, so infinite,

That we may do it ftill without accompt.
Vouchfafe to fhew the funfhine of your face,
That we (like favages) may worship it.

Rofa. My face is but a moon and clouded too. King. Bleffed are clouds, to do as fuch clouds do. Vouchfafe, bright moon, and these thy ftars, to fhine (Those clouds remov'd) upon our watery eyne.

Roja

Rofa. O vain petitioner, beg a greater matter; Thou now requeft'ft but moon-fhine in the water. King. Then in our measure vouchfafe but one change; Thou bid'ft me beg, this begging is not strange.

Rofa. Play, mufick, then; nay, you must do it foon. Not yet? no dance? thus change I, like the moon. King. Will you not dance? how come you thus eftrang'd? Rofa. You took the moon at full, but now she's chang'd. King. Yet ftill fhe is the moon, and I the man. (45) The mufick plays, vouchfafe fome motion to it. Rofa. Our ears vouchsafe it.

King. But your legs fhould do it.

Rofa. Since you are ftrangers, and come here by chance, We'll not be nice; take hands ;- -we will not dance. King. Why take you hands then!

Rofa. Only to part friends;

Curt'fy, fweet hearts, and fo the measure ends.

King. More measure of this measure; be not nice.
Roja. We can afford no more at fuch a price.

King. Prize yourselves then; what buys your company?
Rofa. Your abfence only.

King. That can never be.

Rofa. Then cannot we be bought; and fo, adieu;
Twice to your vifor, and half once to you.

King. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.
Rofa. In private then.

King. I am beft pleas'd with that.

Biron.White-handed miftrefs, one sweet word with thee. Prin. Honey, and milk, and fugar, there is three.

(45) King. Yet fill fhe is the moon, and I the man.

Rofa. The mufick plays, vouchsafe some motion to it ;

Our ears vouchsafe it.]

This verfe, about the man in the moon, I verily believe to be fpurious, and an interpolation: becaufe, in the firft place, the conceit of it is not purfued; and then it entirely breaks in upon the chain of the couplets, and has no rhyme to it. However, I have not ventur'd to cahier it. The 2d verfe is given to Rafaline, but very abfurdly. The King is intended to folicit the Princefs to dance; but the Ladies had beforehand declar'd their refolutions of not complying. It is evident therefore, that it is the King, who should importune Rofaline, whom he mistakes for the Princefs, to dance with him. Biron

VOL. II.

L

Biron. Nay then, two treys; and if you grow fo nice, Methegline, wort, and malmfey;well run, dice:

There's half a dozen fweets.

Prin. Seventh fweet, adieu ;

Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.
Biron. One word in fecret.

Prin. Let it not be sweet.

Biron. Thou griev'ft my gall.
Prin. Gall? bitter.-

Biron. Therefore meet.

Dem. Will you vouchfafe with me to change a word ?

Mar. Name it.

Dum. Fair Lady

Mar. Say you fo? fair Lord: Take that for your fair Lady. Dum. Please it you;

afk.

As much in private; and I'll bid adieu.
Cath. What, was your vizor made without a
tongue!
Long. I know the reafon, Lady, why you
Cath. O, for your reafon! quickly, Sir; I long
Long. You have a double tongue within your mask,
And would afford my fpeechlefs vizor half.

Cath. Veal, quoth the Dutch man; is not veal a calf?

Long. A calf, fair Lady?

Cath. No, a fair Lord-calf.
Long. Let's part the word,

Cath. No, I'll not be

your half;

Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox.
Long. Look, how you buttyourfelf in thefe fharp mocks!
Will you give horns, chafte Lady? do not fo.
Cath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.
Long. One word in private with you, ere I die.
Cath. Bleat foftly then, the butcher hears you cry.
Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as
As is the razor's edge, invincible,
Cutting a smaller hair than may be feen:

Above the fenfe of fenfe, fo fenfible

keen

Seemeth their conference, their conceits have wings; Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, fwifter things. Rofa. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.

Biron. By heaven, all dry beaten with pure fcoff.King. Farewel, mad wenches, you have fimple wits. [Exeunt King and Lords. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are thefe the breed of wits fo wondred at?

Boyet. Tapers they are, with your fweet breaths puft out. Rofa. Well-liking wits they have; grofs, grofs; fat, fat. Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly poor flout: Will they not (think you) hang themselves to-night? Or ever, but in vizors, fhew their faces? This pert Biron was out of count'nance quite. Rofa. O! they were all in lamentable cafes. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. Prin. Biron did fwear himself out of all fuit. Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his fword: No, point, quoth I; my fervant ftrait was mute. Cath. Lord Longaville faid, I came o'er his heart; And, trow you, what he call'd me!

Prin. Qualm, perhaps.

Cath. Yes, in good faith.

Prin. Go, fickness as thou art!

Rofa. Well, better wits have worn plain ftatute caps.
But will you hear the King is my love fworn.
Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me,
Cath. And Longaville was for my fervice born.
Mar. Dumain is mine, as fure as bark on tree.
Boyet. Madam, and pretty miftreffes, give ear:
Immediately they will again be here

In their own fhapes; for it can never be,
They will digeft this harsh indignity.

Prin. Will they return?

Boyet. They will, they will, God knows ; And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: Therefore change favours, and when they repair, Blow like fweet rofes in this fummer air.

Prin. How blow? how blow? fpeak to be understood. Boyet. Fair Ladies, mafkt, are rofes in their bud; (45)

(46) Fair Ladies mafkt are

rofes in the bud:

Difmaft, their damask freet con mixture showr,
Are angels vailing clouds, or rofjes blown.]

Or

Or angel-veiling clouds are rofes blown,
Difmafkt, their damafk fweet commixture fhewn.
Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! what shall we do,
If they return in their own fhapes to woo?

Rof. Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,
Let's mock them ftill, as well known, as difguis'd;
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Difguis'd, like Mufcovites, in fhapeless gear;
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their fhallow fhows, and prologue vildly pen'd,
And their rough carriage fo ridiculous,
Should be prefented at our tent to us.

Boyet. Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er the land. [Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE, before the Princefs's Pavilion..

Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain, in their own habits; Boyet, meeting them.

KING.

Fair Sir, God fave you. t.

Air Sir, God fave you. Where's the Princess?

Pleafe it your Majefty, command me any fervice to her? word. King. That the vouchfafe me audience for one Boyet. I will; and fo will fhe, I know, my Lord. [Exit. Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again, when Jove doth pleafe:

As thefe lines ftand in all the editions, there is not only an Anticlimax with a vengeance; but fuch a jumble, that makes the whole, I think, ftark nonfenfe. I have ventur'd at a tranfpofition of the 2d and 3d lines, by the advice of my friend Mr. Warburton; and by a minute change, or two, clear'd up the fenfe, I hope, to the poet's

intention.

He