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A C T III. SCENE, a Pavilion in the Park near the

Palace.

Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Catharine, Lords,

Attendants, and a Forefter.

PRINCESS.
AS that the King, that spurr'd his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?
Boyet. I know not; but, I think, it was not he.
Prin. Who e'er he was, he shew'd a mounting mind.
Well

, Lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch :
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then Forester, 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 faireft shoot

. Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair, that shoot : And thereupon thou speak’it the fairest shoot.

For. Pardon me, madam : for I meant not so. 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 glass, 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 heresy in fair, fit for these days ! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow ; now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I lave my credit in the shoot, Not wounding, pity would not let me do't:

If wounding, then it was to shew my skill;
That more for praise, than purpose, meant to kill.
And, out of question, so it is sometimes;
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes;
When for fame's fake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart.
As I for praise alone now seek to spill
The
poor

deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.
Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that felf-sovereignty
Only for praise-fake, when they ftrive to be
Lords o'er their Lords ?

Prin. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any Lady, that subdues her Lord.

Enter Costard. Boyet. Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

Cost. God dig-you-den all; pray you, which is the head Lady?

Prin. Thou Malt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

Coft. Which is the greatest Lady, the highest?
Prin. The thickeit and the talleft.

Coft. The thickest and the tallest? it is so, truth is truth. An your waste, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids girdles for your wafte should be fit.

you the chief woman? you are the thickest here. Prin. What's your will, Sir? what's your

will ? Coff. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron, to one Lady

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

Are not

Break (19) Boyet, you can carve ; Break

up this capon.) i. e. open this letter. Our poet uses this metaphor, as the French do their poulet; which lignifies both a young fowl, and a love letter. Pculet, amatoriæ litter&; says 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 use the same manner of expresion, when they call a love-epiftle, una pollicetta amorosa. I ow'd the hint of this equivocal use of the word to my ingenious friend Mr. Bishop. I observe in Wifiwardboe, 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 swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give eari

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 commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate 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 base and obscure vulgar!) videlicet, he came, law, and overcame; he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the King. Why did he come ? to see. Why did he fee? to overcome. To whom came he? to the beggar. What saw he ? the beggar. Who overcame he ? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose fide! the King's; the captive is inrich'd: on whole fide? the beggar's. The catatrophe is a nuptial: on whose fide! the King's ? no, on both in one, or one in both: I am the King, (for so stands the comparison) thou the beggar, for lo witnessech thy lowliness. 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? titles: for thyself? me. Thus expecting thy reply, I prophane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Tbine in the dearest design of industry.

Don Adriano de Armado. written by a contemporary with our author, that one of these letters is likewise call’d a wild fowl. Act. 2. Sc. 2.

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

Thus [letter!

Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar

'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standelt as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive (poor soul) what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.

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. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it ere while.

Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniardthat keeps here in court, A phantasme, 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 Berown, a good master of mine, To a Lady of France, that he calld Rosaline.

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

[Exit Princess attended. Boyet. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter ? Roja. Shall I teach you to know? Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. Roja. Why, the that bears the bow. Finely put of.

Boyet, My Lady goes to kill horns: but if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on.

Rosa. Well then, I am the shooter. Boyet. And who is

your

deer! Rofa. If we chuse by horns, yourself; come not near. Finely put on, indeed. · Mar. You ftill wrangle with her, Boyet, and the

strikes at the brow. Boyet. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?'

Rofa. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippin of. France was a little boy, as touching the hit it.

Bojeto

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'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.

Rosa. 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 márk marvellous well fot; for they both did hit

it. Boyet. A mark? O, mark but that mark! a mark,

says 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'must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit

the clout. Boyet. Anif my hand be out, then belike your handisin. Coff

. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving the pin. Mar. Come,come,you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. Coff. She's too hard for you at pricks, Sir, challenge

her to bowl. Boyet. I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good owl.

[Exeunt all but Costard. Coff. By my foul, a fwain; a moft fimple clown. Lord, Lord! how the Ladies and I have put him down! O’my troth, most sweet jelts, moft incony vulgar wit, When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, Armado o'th one side,--0, a most dainty man; To see him walk before a Lady, and to bear her fan. To see him kiss his hand, and how most sweetly he will And his page o’ to other side, that handful of wit; Ah, heav'ns! it is a most pathetical nit.

[Exit Costard. [Shouting within. Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Sir Nathaniel. Nath. Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the teftimony of a good conscience. Hol. The deer was (as you know) sanguis, in blood;

so fit.

swear:

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