PRINCESS.
Was that the king, that spur'd his horse so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?

BOYET.
I know not, but I think it was not he.

PRINCESS.
Whoe'er he was, he shews 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 may stand, and play the murtherer in?

FORESTER.
Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
A stand, where you may make the fairest shoot.

PRINCESS.
Wait, ladies, here; we will dismiss you, lords. [Exeunt Attendants, Forester, &c.
So now we're private, to confer at large;
Well, Rosaline, is Biron full of love?
Wooes he with real anguish, or does he mock
The flame, that Cupid kindled in his breast?
Is he a zealous courtier?

ROSALINE.
Shou'd I reveal the language of his heart,
Or speak the soft emotions of his eye,
Should I repeat, how much he prais'd my charms,
You wou'd esteem me vain.

PRINCESS.
Trust not the glossing tongues of book-read men,
Believe me, Rosaline, they take a pride
To feed the affectation of our sex;
They understand our cunning and our arts,
And varnish o'er our follies, to expose us.

ROSALINE.
Believe me, madam, Biron is my slave,
He has no will, but I have power to guide;
He has no joy, but when I deign to smile,
He has no oath, but what he swears to me.

MARIA.
Indeed, fair Rosaline, we cannot boast
A triumph so compleat; we are content
With a more moderate love.—But, who is this?

Enter BIRON, dressed like Costard.

BIRON.

Pray, you, which is the head lady?

PRINCESS.

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

BIRON.

Which is the greatest lady, the Princess?

PRINCESS.

I am, Sir, what's your pleasure?

BIRON.

The king, madam, does commend this to your fair hand.—Pray, which of you, ladies, is called Maria?

MARIA.

Maria, Sir, is my name.

BIRON.

Then Longaville, madam, begs your care of this. Pray which is Rosaline?

ROSALINE.

I am, Sir.

BIRON.

Rosaline! no Catherine, I think it is; a packet from Dumain.—

CATHERINE.

That, Sir, belongs to me.

ROSALINE.

Well, Sir, and where is mine?

BIRON.

Madam, I have nor more.

ROSALINE.

What! none from Biron? perhaps he means to wait on me himself.

BIRON.

No, madam, he is even now at his study; he says, he cannot waste his precious time with toys and women.

PRINCESS.
How, Rosaline! is it come to this?
Wait, fellow, without.

BIRON.
I shall make free to listen. [Aside.]

PRINCESS.
The king writes in a most loving strain,
So does Dumain, I guess, and Longaville,
But Biron is no rhymester?

MARIA.
Yet he is Rosaline's obedient slave.

CATHERINE.
Who has no will, but what's she's pleased to grant.

MARIA.
Who has no joy, but when she deigns to smile.

CATHERINE.
Who has no oath, but what he swears to her.

ROSALINE.
Well, laugh on ladies—it is mighty well—
Think you, I want him for a lover? No.
It hurts me not.

PRINCESS.
We'll joke with Rosaline another time.
Come, let us hear how well Dumain can write.

CATHERINE. reads.
“On a day (alack, the day!)
“Love, whose month is every May,
“Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
“Playing in the wanton air:
“Through the velvet leaves the wind,
“All unseen, 'gan passage find;
“That the lover, sick to death,
“Wish'd himself the Heaven's breath.
“Air, (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;
“Air, would I might triumph so!
“But, alack, my hand is sworn,
“Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
“Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
“Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
“Do not call it, sin in me,
“That I am forsworn in thee:
“Thou, for whom e'en Jove wou'd swear,
“Juno but an Ethiope were;
“And deny himself for Jove,
“Turning mortal for thy love.”

PRINCESS.
So very loving is the king to me.

MARIA.
And Longaville in such a strain implores
My special favours—can we deny their suits?

PRINCESS.
Can we deny? yes, surely, with a grace;
This is some merry mock'ry of their wit,
To laugh at our weak womanhood, to try
The bent and scope of our affections.

ROSALINE.
Madam, most certain, some paltry frolick,
To rouse your inclinations for a time,
To wake the tender feelings in your hearts,
Then, when the grave and solemn fit comes on,
To quit you for their old philosophy.—

BIRON.
How like an angel she talks! [Aside.]

PRINCESS.
Can Rosaline advise us how to act,
So blasted in the budding of her love?
Can Rosaline, so blooming in her charms,
See thro' the art of Biron, once her slave,
As to forget her conquest, and her love?
Can she without a sigh this palace quit?
Navarre how chang'd, within a minute's time!

CATHERINE.
Come, Rosaline, for we must learn of you,
How shall we answer these fair greetings?

ROSALINE.
I value not your jokes; e'en as you please.
I must not shew them that my pride is touch'd. [Aside.]

PRINCESS.
We will return them—that's the maiden's form,
Whate'er we wish, we must disguise our thoughts,
'Tis wisdom to conceal, where knowledge wou'd
Betray our weakness. You fellow there— [Biron from behind the scene.]
Here, tell the king, your master, I came not
On such an embassy, as this scroll imports;
I came not to be wooed.—

CATHERINE.
Nor I, to listen to the amorous fit
Of gay Dumain.

MARIA.
Nor I, to break the rest of Longaville.

BIRON.
Nor you, that Biron should forswear himself.

ROSALINE.
Peace, varlet!—

BIRON.
How prettily the little rogue blushes— [Aside.]

PRINCESS.
Tell him moreover, that we do expect
This day our dispatch—You may retire. [Exit Biron.
Now, ladies, we're prepar'd to act our parts:
If they do mean us fair, we may consent;
If not, we are but as we were; but yet the eye
Should not disclose the smallest intimation
Of our own heart's desire.—Well, Rosaline,
Art thou too fix'd—to think no more of Biron?

CATHERINE.
O, madam, he hath made her melancholy,
Sad and heavy; had she been light, like me,
Of such a nimble, merry, stirring spirit,
She might have been a grandam e'er she dy'd.

MARIA.
She may be still, good Catherine.

PRINCESS.
Away, away, to our pavilion strait.

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