Boyet, meeting them.
King.
Fair Sir, God save you. Where's the Princess?
Boyet.
Gone to her Tent.
Please it your Majesty, command me any service to her?
-- 163 --
King.
That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
Boyet.
I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
[Exit.
Biron.
This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas;
And utters it again, when Jove doth please:
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes and wassals, meetings, markets, fairs:
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This Gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.
He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he,
That kist away his hand in courtesie;
This is the ape of form, Monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay, he can sing
A mean most mainly; and, in ushering,
Mend him who can; the ladies call him sweet;
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.
This is the flower, that smiles on every one,(47) note
To shew his teeth, as white as whale his bone.—
-- 164 --
And consciences, that will not not die in debt,
Pay him the due of honey-tongu'd Boyet.
King.
A blister on his sweet tongue with my heart,
That put Armado's Page out of his Part!
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Catharine, Boyet, and attendants.
Biron.
See, where it comes; behaviour, what wert thou,
'Till this man shew'd thee? and what art thou now?
King.
All hail, sweet Madam, and fair time of day!
Prin.
Fair in all hail is foul, as I conceive.
King.
Construe my speeches better, if you may.
Prin.
Then wish me better, I will give you leave.
King.
We come to visit you, and purpose now
To lead you to our Court; vouchsafe it then.
Prin.
This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men.
King.
Rebuke me not for That, which you provoke;
The vertue of your eye must break my oath.
-- 165 --
Prin.
You nick-name virtue; vice you should have spoke:
For virtue's office never breaks mens troth.
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unsully'd lilly, I protest,
A world of torments though I should endure,
I would not yield to be your house's guest:
So much I hate a breaking cause to be
Of heav'nly oaths, vow'd with integrity.
King.
O, you have liv'd in desolation here,
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
Prin.
Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game.
A mess of Russians left us but of late.
King
How, Madam? Russians?
Prin.
Ay, in truth, my lord;
Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state.
Rosa.
Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:
My lady (to the manner of the days)
In courtesie gives undeserving praise.
We four, indeed, confronted were with four,
In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour,
And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,
They did not bless us with one happy word.
I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.
Biron.
This jest is dry to me. Fair, gentle, sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish; when we greet
With eyes best seeing heaven's fiery eye,
By light we lose light; your capacity
Is of that nature, as to your huge store
Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor.
Rosa.
This proves you wise and rich; for in my eye—
Biron.
I am a fool, and full of poverty.
Rosa.
But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.
Biron.
O, I am yours, and all that I possess.
Rosa.
All the fool mine?
Biron.
I cannot give you less.
Rosa.
Which of the vizors was it, that you wore?
-- 166 --
Biron.
Where? when? what vizor? why demand you this?
Rosa.
There, then, that vizor, that superfluous Case,
That hid the worse, and shew'd the better face.
King.
We are descried; they'll mock us now down-right.
Dum.
Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.
Prin.
Amaz'd, my lord? why looks your Highness sad?
Rosa.
Help, hold his brows, he'll swoon: why look you pale?
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.
Biron.
Thus pour the stars down plagues for Perjury.
Can any face of brass hold longer out?
Here stand I, lady, dart thy skill at me;
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout,
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
O! never will I trust to speeches pen'd,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue;
Nor never come in vizor to my friend,
Nor woo in rhime like a blind harper's song;
Taffata-phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation.
Figures pedantical, these summer-flies,
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation,
I do forswear them; and I here protest,
By this white glove, (how white the hand, God knows!)
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be exprest
In russet yeas, and honest kersie noes:
And to begin, wench, so God help me, law,
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Rosa.
Sans, sans, I pray you.
Biron.
Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick.
I'll leave it by degrees: soft, let us see;
-- 167 --
Write, Lord have mercy on us, on those three;
They are infected, in their hearts it lyes;
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:
These lords are visited, you are not free;
For the lord's tokens on you both I see.
Prin.
No, they are free, that gave these tokens to us.
Biron.
Our states are forfeit, seek not to undo us.
Rosa.
It is not so; for how can this be true,
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?
Biron.
Peace, for I will not have to do with you.
Rosa.
Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
Biron.
Speak for your selves, my wit is at an end.
King.
Teach us, sweet Madam, for our rude transgression
Some fair excuse.
Prin.
The fairest is confession.
Were you not here, but even now, disguis'd?
King.
Madam, I was.
Prin.
And were you well advis'd?
King.
I was, fair Madam.
Prin.
When you then were here,
What did you whisper in your lady's ear?
King.
That more than all the world I did respect her.
Prin.
When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.
King.
Upon mine honour, no.
Prin.
Peace, peace, forbear:
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.
King.
Despise me, when I break this oath of mine.
Prin.
I will, and therefore keep it. Rosaline,
What did the Russian whisper in your ear?
Rosa.
Madam, he swore, that he did hold me dear
As precious eye sight; and did value me
Above this world; adding thereto moreover,
That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
Prin.
God give thee joy of him! the noble lord
Most honourably doth uphold his word.
-- 168 --
King.
What mean you, Madam? by my life, my troth,
I never swore this lady such an oath.
Rosa.
By heav'n, you did; and to confirm it plain,
You gave me this: but take it, Sir, again.
King.
My faith, and this, to th' Princess I did give;
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
Prin.
Pardon me, Sir, this jewel did she wear:
And lord Biron, I thank him, is my Dear,
What? will you have me? or your pearl again?
Biron.
Neither of either: I remit both twain.
I see the trick on't; here was a consent,
(Knowing aforehand of our merriment)
To dash it like a Christmas comedy.
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,
That smiles his cheek in jeers, and knows the trick(48) note
To make my lady laugh, when she's dispos'd,
Told our intents before; which once disclos'd,
The ladies did change Favours, and then we,
Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she:
Now to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn, in will and error.
Much upon this it is.—And might not You
[To Boyet.
Forestal our sport, to make us thus untrue?
Do not you know my lady's foot by th' squier,
And laugh upon the apple of her eye,
And stand between her back, Sir, and the fire,
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?
You put our Page out: go, you are allow'd;
Die when you will, a smock shall be your shrowd.
You leer upon me, do you? there's an eye
Wounds like a leaden sword.
Boyet.
Full merrily
Hath this brave Manage, this Career, been run.
Biron.
Lo, he is tilting strait. Peace, I have done.
-- 169 --
Enter Costard.
Welcome, pure wit, thou partest a fair fray.
Cost.
O lord, Sir, they would know
Whether the three Worthies shall come in, or no.
Biron.
What, are there but three?
Cost.
No, Sir, but it is vara fine;
For every one pursents three.
Biron.
And three times thrice is nine?
Cost.
Not so, Sir, under correction, Sir; I hope, it
is not so.
You cannot beg us, Sir; I can assure you, Sir, we know
what we know: I hope, three times thrice, Sir—
Biron.
Is not nine.
Cost.
Under correction, Sir, we know whereuntil it
doth amount.
Biron.
By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
Cost.
O lord, Sir, it were pity you should get your
living by reckoning, Sir.
Biron.
How much is it?
Cost.
O lord, Sir, the parties themselves, the actors,
Sir, will shew whereuntil it doth amount; for my own
part, I am, as they say, but to perfect one man in
one poor man, Pompion the Great, Sir.
Biron.
Art thou one of the Worthies?
Cost.
It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion
the Great: for mine own part, I know not the degree
of the Worthy; but I am to stand for him.
Biron.
Go bid them prepare.
Cost.
We will turn it finely off, Sir, we will take
some care.
King.
Biron, they will shame us; let them not approach.
[Exit Cost.
Biron.
We are shame-proof, my lord; and 'tis some policy
To have one Show worse than the King's and his Company.
King.
I say, they shall not come.
Prin.
Nay, my good lord, let me o'er-rule you now;
That sport best pleases, that doth least know how.
-- 170 --
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Dies in the zeal of that which it presents;
Their form, confounded, makes most form in mirth;
When great things, labouring, perish in their birth.
Biron.
A right description of our sport, my lord.
Enter Armado.
Arm.
Anointed, I implore so much expence of thy
royal sweet breath, as will utter a brace of words.
Prin.
Doth this man serve God?
Biron.
Why ask you?
Prin.
He speaks not like a man of God's making.
Arm.
That's all one, my fair sweet honey monarch;
for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical;
too, too vain; too, too vain: but we will put it, as
they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace
of mind, most royal cupplement.
King.
Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies:
he presents Hector of Troy, the swain Pompey
the Great, the parish-curate Alexander, Armado's page
Hercules, the pedant Judas Machabeus.
And if these four Worthies in their first Show thrive,
These four will change habits, and present the other five.
Biron.
There are five in the first Show.
King.
You are deceiv'd, 'tis not so.
Biron.
The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy.
A bare throw at Novum, and the whole world again
Cannot prick out five such, take each one in's vein.
King.
The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.
Enter Costard for Pompey.
Cost.
I Pompey am &lblank;
Boyet.
You lye, you are not he.
Cost.
I Pompey am &lblank;
Boyet.
With Libbard's head on knee.(49) note
-- 171 --
Biron.
Well said, old mocker: I must needs be
friends with thee.
Cost.
I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big.
Dum.
The Great.
Cost.
It is Great, Sir; Pompey, surnam'd the Great;
That oft in field, with targe and shield,
Did make my foe to sweat:
And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance;
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet Lass of France.
If your ladyship would say, “thanks, Pompey, I had done.
Prin.
Great thanks, great Pompey.
Cost.
'Tis not so much worth; but, I hope, I was
perfect. I made a little fault in great.
Biron.
My hat to a half-penny, Pompey proves the
best Worthy.
Enter Nathaniel for Alexander.
Nath.
When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's Commander;
By east, west, north and south, I spread my conquering might:
My 'Scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander.
Boyet.
Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands too right.
Biron.
Your nose smells, no, in this, most tender smelling Knight.
Prin.
The Conqueror is dismaid: proceed, good Alexander.
Nath.
When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's Commander.
Boyet.
Most true, 'tis right; you were so, Alisander.
Biron.
Pompey the Great,—
Cost.
Your servant and Costard.
Biron.
Take away the Conqueror, take away Alisander.
Cost.
O Sir, you have overthrown Alisander the Conqueror.
[to Nath.]
You will be scraped out of the painted
-- 172 --
cloth for this; your lion, that holds the poll-ax sitting
on a close-stool(50) note
, will be given to A-jax; he
will be then the ninth Worthy. A Conqueror, and afraid
to speak? run away for shame, Alisander. There,
an't shall please you; a foolish mild man; an honest
man, look you, and soon dash'd. He is a marvellous
good neighbour, insooth, and a very good bowler;
but for Alisander, alas, you see, how 'tis a little o'erparted:
but there are Worthies a coming will speak
their mind in some other sort.
Biron.
Stand aside, good Pompey.
Enter Holofernes for Judas, and Moth for Hercules.
Hol.
Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canus;
And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus:
Quoniam, he seemeth in minority;
Ergo, I come with this apology.—
Keep some state in thy Exit, and vanish.
[Exit Moth.
Hol.
Judas I am.
Dum.
A Judas!
Hol.
Not Iscariot, Sir;
Judas I am, ycleped Machabeus.
Dum.
Judas Machabeus clipt, is plain Judas.
Biron.
A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas?
Hol.
Judas I am.
Dum.
The more shame for you, Judas.
-- 173 --
Hol.
What mean you, Sir?
Boyet.
To make Judas hang himself.
Hol.
Begin, Sir, you are my elder.
Biron.
Well follow'd; Judas was hang'd on an Elder.
Hol.
I will not be put out of countenance.
Biron.
Because thou hast no face.
Hol.
What is this?
Boyet.
A cittern head.
Dum.
The head of a bodkin.
Biron.
A death's face in a ring.
Long.
The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
Boyet.
The pummel of Cæsar's faulchion.
Dum.
The carv'd-bone face on a flask.
Biron.
St. George's half-cheek in a brooch.
Dum.
Ay, and in a brooch of lead.
Biron.
Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer;
And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance.
Hol.
You have put me out of countenance.
Biron.
False; we have given thee faces.
Hol.
But you have out-fac'd them all.
Biron.
And thou wert a lion, we would do so.
Boyet.
Therefore as he is an ass, let him go.
And so adieu, sweet Jude; nay, why dost thou stay?
Dum.
For the latter end of his name.
Biron.
For the Ass to the Jude; give it him. Jud-as, away.
Hol.
This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.
Boyet.
A light for monsieur Judas; it grows dark, he may stumble.
Prin.
Alas! poor Machabeus, how he hath been baited!
Enter Armado.
Biron.
Hide thy head, Achilles, here comes Hector in
arms.
Dum.
Tho' my mocks come home by me, I will
now be merry.
King.
Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.
Boyet.
But is this Hector?
King.
I think, Hector was not so clean timber'd.
-- 174 --
Long.
His leg is too big for Hector.
Dum.
More calf, certain.
Boyet.
No; he is best indu'd in the small.
Biron.
This can't be Hector.
Dum.
He's a God or a Painter, for he makes faces.
Arm.
The armipotent Mars, of launces the Almighty,
Gave Hector a gift,—
Dum.
A gilt nutmeg.
Biron.
A lemon.
Long.
Stuck with cloves.
Dum.
No, cloven.
Arm.
The armipotent Mars, of launces the Almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;
A man so breathed, that certain he would fight ye
From morn 'till night, out of his pavilion.
I am that flower.
Dum.
That mint.
Long.
That cullambine.
Arm.
Sweet lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.
Long.
I must rather give it the rein; for it runs against
Hector.
Dum.
Ay, and Hector's a grey-hound.
Arm.
The sweet War-man is dead and rotten;
Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the bury'd:
But I will forward with my device;
Sweet Royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.
Prin.
Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.
Arm.
I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper.
Boyet.
Loves her by the foot.
Dum.
He may not, by the yard.
Arm.
This Hector far surmounted Hannibal(51) note
.
Cost.
The Party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone;
she is two months on her way.
Arm.
What mean'st thou?
-- 175 --
Cost.
Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the
poor wench is cast away; she's quick, the child brags
in her belly already. 'Tis yours.
Arm.
Dost thou infamonize me among Potentates?
Thou shalt die.
Cost.
Then shall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta, that
is quick by him; and hang'd for Pompey, that is dead
by him.
Dum.
Most rare Pompey!
Boyet.
Renowned Pompey!
Biron.
Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey!
Pompey the huge!
Dum.
Hector trembles.
Biron.
Pompey is mov'd; more Ates, more Ates, stir
them on, stir them on.
Dum.
Hector will challenge him.
Biron.
Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's belly
than will sup a flea.
Arm.
By the north-pole, I do challenge thee.
Cost.
I will not fight with a pole like a northern
man: I'll slash; I'll do't by the Sword: I pray you,
let me borrow my arms again.
Dum.
Room for the incensed Worthies.
Cost.
I'll do't in my shirt.
Dum.
Most resolute Pompey!
Moth.
Master, let me take you a button-hole lower.
Do ye not see, Pompey is uncasing for the combat: what
mean you? you will lose your reputation.
Arm.
Gentlemen, and soldiers, pardon me; I will
not combat in my shirt.
Dum.
You may not deny it, Pompey hath made the
challenge.
Arm.
Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
Biron.
What reason have you for't?
Arm.
The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I
go woolward for penance.
Boyet.
True,(52) note and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for
want of linnen; since when, I'll be sworn he wore
-- 176 --
none, but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that he
wears next his heart for a Favour.
Enter Macard.
Mac.
God save you, Madam.
Prin.
Welcome, Macard, but that thou interruptest
our merriment.
Mac.
I'm sorry, Madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—
Prin.
Dead, for my life.
Mac.
Even so: my Tale is told.
Biron.
Worthies, away; the Scene begins to cloud.
Arm.
For my own part, I breathe free breath; I
have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of
discretion, and I will right my self like a soldier.
[Exeunt Worthies.
King.
How fares your Majesty?
Prin.
Boyet, prepare; I will away to night.
King.
Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay.
Prin.
Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe
In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide,
The liberal opposition of our spirits;
If over-boldly we have born our selves
In the converse of breath, your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy lord;
An heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue:(53) note
-- 177 --
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks,
For my great Suit so easily obtain'd.
King.
The extreme part of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed;
And often, at his very loose, decides
That, which long Process could not arbitrate
And though the mourning brow of Progeny
Forbid the smiling courtesie of love,
The holy suit which fain it would convince;
Yet since love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
From what it purpos'd: Since, to wail friends lost,
Is not by much so wholsome, profitable,
As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
Prin.
I understand you not, my griefs are double.
Biron.
Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
And by these badges understand the King.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play'd foul Play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to th' opposed end of our intents;
And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,
As love is full of unbefitting strains,
All wanton as a child, skipping and vain,
Form'd by the eye, and therefore like the eye,
Full of straying shapes, of habits, and of forms,
Varying in subjects as the eye doth rowl,
To every varied object in his glance;
Which party-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heav'nly eyes,
Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities;
Those heav'nly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make them: therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours. We to our selves prove false,
By being once false, for ever to be true
-- 178 --
To those that make us both; fair ladies, you:
And even that falshood, in it self a sin,
Thus purifies it self, and turns to grace.
Prin.
We have receiv'd your letters, full of love,
Your Favours, the embassadors of love:
And in our maiden council rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesie;
As bumbast, and as lining to the time:
But more devout, than these are our respects,
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.
Dum.
Our letters, madam, shew'd much more than jest.
Long.
So did our looks.
Rosa.
We did not coat them so.
King.
Now at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves.
Prin.
A time, methinks, too short,
To make a world-without-end bargain in;
No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore, this—
If for my love (as there is no such cause)
You will do ought, this shall you do for me;
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked Hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay until the twelve celestial Signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this tryal, and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge me; challenge me, by these deserts;
And by this virgin palm, now kissing thine,
I will be thine; and 'till that instant shut
My woful self up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation,
For the remembrance of my father's death.
-- 179 --
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other's heart.
King.
If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest;
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!
Hence, ever then, my heart is in thy breast.
Biron.
(54) note
[And what to me, my love? and what to me?
Rosa.
You must be purged too, your sins are rank,
You are attaint with fault and perjury;
Therefore if you my favour mean to get,
A twelve-month shall you spend, and never rest,
But seek the weary beds of people sick.]
Dum.
But what to me, my love? but what to me?
Cath.
(55) note
A wife!—a beard, fair health and honesty;
With three-fold love I wish you all these three.
Dum.
O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?
-- 180 --
Cath.
Not so, my lord; a twelve-month and a day,
I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say.
Come, when the King doth to my lady come;
Then if I have much love, I'll give you some.
Dum.
I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.
Cath.
Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.
Long.
What says Maria?
Mar.
At the twelve-month's end,
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
Long.
I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.
Mar.
The liker you; few taller are so young.
Biron.
Studies my lady? mistress, look on me,
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble Suit attends thy answer there;
Impose some service on me for thy love.
Rosa.
Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts;
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lye within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
Without the which I am not to be won;
You shall this twelve-month-term from day to day
Visit the speechless Sick, and still converse
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T'enforce the pained Impotent to smile.
Biron.
To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be, it is impossible:
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
Rosa.
Why, that's the way to choak a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
Deaft with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns; continue then,
-- 181 --
And I will have you, and that fault withal:
But if they will not, throw away that spirit;
And I shall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your reformation.
Biron.
A twelve-month? well; befall, what will befall,
I'll jest a twelve-month in an Hospital.
Prin.
Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.
[to the King.
King.
No, Madam; we will bring you on your way.
Biron.
Our wooing doth not end like an old Play;
Jack hath not Jill; these ladies courtesie
Might well have made our sport a Comedy.
King.
Come, Sir, it wants a twelve-month and a day,
And then 'twill end.
Biron.
(56) noteThat's too long for a Play.
Enter Armado.
Arm.
Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me—
Prin.
Was not that Hector?
Dum.
That worthy Knight of Troy.
Arm.
I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I
am a Votary; I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the
plough for her sweet love three years. But, most-esteem'd
Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that
the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the
owl and the cuckow? it should have follow'd in the
end of our Show.
King.
Call them forth quickly, we will do so.
Arm.
Holla! approach.—
Enter all.
This side is Hiems, winter.
This Ver, the spring: the one maintain'd by the owl,
-- 182 --
The other by the cuckow.
Ver, begin.
The SONG.
SPRING.
(57) note
When daizies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckow-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight;
The cuckow then on every tree
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckow!
Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmens clocks:
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws;
And maidens bleach their summer smocks;
The cuckow then on every tree
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckow!
Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
-- 183 --
WINTER.
When isicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail;
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit! to-who!
A merry note,
While greasie Jone doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the Parson's saw;
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! to-who!
A merry note,
While greasie Jone doth keel the pot.
Arm.
The words of Mercury
Are harsh after the Songs of Apollo:
You, that way; we, this way.
[Exeunt omnes.
