Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Rof. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Biron. I know, you did.

Rof. How needlefs was it then to afk the question? Biron. You must not be fo quick.

Rof. 'Tis long of you, that fpur me with such questions.

Biron. Your wit's too hot, it fpeeds too faft, 'twill tire.

Rof. Not 'till it leave the rider in the mire.

Biron. What time o'day?

Rof. The hour, that fools fhould afk.
Biron. Now fair befal your mafk!
Rof. Fair fall the face it covers!
Biron. And fend you many lovers!
Rof. Amen, so you be none!
Biron. Nay, then will I be gone.

King. Madam, your father here doth intimate
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
Being but th' one half of an intire fum,
Disbursed by my father in his wars.

But fay, that he, or we, as neither have,
Receiv'd that fum; yet there remains unpaid
A hundred thousand more; in furety of the which,
One part of Aquitain is bound to us,

Although not valu'd to the money's worth:
If then the King your father will reftore
But that one half which is unfatisfy'd,
We will give up our right in Aquitain,
And hold fair friendship with his Majefty:
But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
For here he doth demand to have repaid
An hundred thousand crowns, and not demands,
On payment of an hundred thousand crowns,
To have his title live in Aquitain,

Which we much rather had depart withal,
And have the money by our father lent,
Than Aquitain fo gelded as it is.

Dear

Dear Princess, were not his requests so far
From reafon's yielding, your fair felf fhould make
A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breaft;
And go well fatisfied to France again.

Prin. You do the King my father too much wrong,
And wrong the reputation of your name,
In fo unfeeming to confefs receipt,

Of that, which hath so faithfully been paid.
King. I do proteft, I never heard of it;
And if you prove it, I'll repay it back,
Or yield up Aquitain.

Prin. We arreft your word:

Boyet, you can produce acquittances
For fuch a fum, from special officers
Of Charles his father.

King. Satisfy me fo.

Boyet. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other fpecialties are bound: To-morrow you fhall have a fight of them.

King. It fhall fuffice me; at which interview,
All liberal reafon I will yield unto:

Mean time, receive fuch welcome at my hand,
As honour without breach of honour may
Make tender of, to thy true worthiness.
You may not come, fair Princess, in
my gates;
But here, without, you fhall be fo receiv'd,
As you fhall deem yourfelf lodg'd in my heart,
Tho' fo deny'd fair harbour in my house:'
Your own good thoughts excufe me, and farewel;
To-morrow we fhall vifit you again.

Prin. Sweet health and fair defires confort your
Grace!

King. Thy own Wish wish I thee, in every place.

[Exit. Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own heart. Rof. I pray you, do my commendations;

I would be glad to fee it.

Biron. I would, you heard it groan,

Rof.

Rof. Is the fool fick ?
Biron. Sick at the heart.
Rof. Alack, let it blood.

Biron. Would that do it good?

Rof. My phyfic fays, ay.

Biron. Will you prick't with your eye?
Rof. No, poynt, with my knife.

Biron. Now God save thy life!
Rof. And yours from long living!
Biron. I cannot ftay thanksgiving,

[Exit. Dum. Sir, I pray you a word: what lady is that fame?

Boyet. The heir of Alanfon, Rofaline her name. Dum. A gallant lady; Monfieur, fare you well.

[Exit. Long. I befeech you, a word: what is fhe in white? Boyet. A woman fometimes, if you faw her in the light.

Long. Perchance, light in the light; I defire her

name..

Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to defire That, were a fhame.

Long. Pray you, Sir, whofe daughter?

Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard.
Long. God's bleffing on your beard!
Boyet. Good Sir, be not offended.

She is an heir of Faulconbridge.

Long. Nay, my choller is ended: She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet. Not unlike, Sir; that may be. [Exit Long. Biron. What's her name in the cap?

Boyet. Catharine, by good hap

Biron. Is fhe wedded, or no?

Boyet. To her will, Sir, or fo.

Biron. You are welcome, Sir; adieu!

Boyet. Farewel to me, Sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit Biron.

Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord;

Not a word with him but a jeft.

Boyet.

Boyet. And every jeft but a word.

Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his

word.

Boyet. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to board.

Mar. Two hot fheeps, marry.

Boyet. And wherefore not fhips?

No fheep, (fweet lamb) unless we feed on your lips. Mar. You fheep, and I pafture; fhall that finish the jeft?

Boyet. So you grant pafture for me.
Mar. Not fo, gentle beaft;

My lips are no common, though several they be.
Boyet. Belonging to whom?

Mar. To my fortunes and me.

Prin. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles,

agree.

This civil war of wits were much better us'd

On Navarre, and his book-men; for here 'tis abus'd. Boyet. If my obfervation, (which very feldom lies) By the heart's ftill rhetoric, disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

Prin. With what?

Boyet. With that which we lovers intitle affected. Prin. Your reason?

Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the Court of his eye, peeping thorough defire: His heart, like an agat with your print impreffed, Proud with his form, in his eye pride expreffed: His tongue, all impatient to fpeak and not fee, Did ftumble with hafte in his eye-fight to be: All fenfes to that fenfe did make their repair, To feel only looking on faireft of fair; Methought, all his fenfes were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some Prince to buy; Who tend'ring their own worth, from whence they were glasst,

Did point out to buy them, along as you paft.

His face's own margent did quote fuch amazes,
That all eyes faw his eyes inchanted with gazes:
I'll give you Aquitain, and all that is his,

An' you give him for my fake but one loving kiss. Prin. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is difpos'dBoyet. But to fpeak that in words, which his eye hath disclos'd;

I only have made a mouth of his eye.

By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.

Rof. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakeft fkilfully.

Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.

Rof. Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim.

Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?

W of hearing.

Moth. Concolinel

[Singing Arm. Sweet Air! go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the fwain; bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.

Moth. Mafter, will you win your love with a French brawl?

Arm. How mean'ft thou, brawling in French?

Moth