SCENE I.
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Catherine, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.
Prin.
Was that the King that spur'd his Horse so hard
Against the steep unrising 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 Murtherer in?
For.
Hereby upon the edge of yonder Coppice,
A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.
Prin.
I thank my Beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.
For.
Pardon me, for I meant not so.
Prin.
What, what? First praise me, then again say no.
O short-liv'd Pride. Not Fair? alack for wo.
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, see, my Beauty will be sav'd by Merit:
O Heresie in fair, fit for these Days,
A giving Hand, though foul, shall have the Praise.
-- 416 --
But come, the Bow; now Mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well, is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save 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 sake to praise an outward Part,
We bend to that, the working of the Heart.
As I for Praise alone now seek to spill
The poor Dear's Blood, that my Heart means no ill.
Boyet.
Do not curst Wives hold that self-sovereignty
Only for Praise sake, when they strive 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 Common-wealth.
Cost.
God dig-you-den all, pray you which is the head
Lady?
Prin.
Thou shalt know her, Fellow, by the rest that have
no Heads.
Cost.
Which is the greatest Lady, the highest?
Prin.
The thickest and the tallest.
Cost.
The thickest and the tallest; it is so, truth is truth.
And your Waste, Mistriss, were as slender as my Wit,
One a these Maids Girdles for your Waste should be fit.
Are not you the chief Woman? You are the thickest here.
Prin.
What's your Will, Sir? What's your Will?
Cost.
I have a Letter from Monsieur Biron,
To one Lady Rosaline.
Prin.
O thy Letter, thy Letter: He's a good Friend of mine.
Stand aside; good Bearer.
Boyet, you can carve,
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 Ear.
-- 417 --
Boyet reads.
By Heaven, that thou art Fair, is most infallible; true
that thou art Beauteous; Truth it self that thou art
Lovely; more fairer than Fair, beautiful than Beauteous,
truer than Truth it self; have Commiseration on thy heroical
Vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua
set Eye upon the pernicious and indubitate Beggar
Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say, Veni,
vidi, vici; which to Anatomize in the Vulgar, O base and
obscure Vulgar; videlicet, he came, saw and overcame; he
came one, saw two, overcame three. Who came? the
King. Why did he come? to see. Why did he see? to
overcome. To whom came he? to the Beggar. What saw
he? the Beggar. Who overcame him? the Beggar. The
Conclusion is Victory; On whose side? the King's; the
Captive is inrich'd; On whose side? the Beggar's. The
Catastrophe is a Nuptial: On whose side? 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 so witnesseth 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 thy self? me. Thus expecting thy Reply, I prophane
my Lips on thy Foot, my Eyes on thy Picture, and my
Heart on thy every Part.
Thine in the dearest design of Industry,
Don Adriana de Armado.
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean Lion roar
'Gainst thee thou Lamb, that standest 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 Feather is he that indited this Letter?
What Vane? What Weathercock? Did you ever hear
better?
Boyet.
I am much deceived, but I remember the Stile.
Prin.
Else your Memory is bad, going o'er it e're while.
Boyet.
This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in Court,
A Phantasme, a Monarcho, and one that makes Sport
-- 418 --
To the Prince and his Book-mates.
Prin.
Thou Fellow, a Word.
Who gave thee this Letter?
Cost.
I told you, my Lord.
Prin.
To whom should'st thou give it?
Cost.
From my Lord to my Lady.
Prin.
From which Lord to which Lady?
Cost.
From my Lord Berown, a good Master of mine,
To a Lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.
Prin.
Thou hast mistaken his Letter. Come Lords away.
Here Sweet, put up this, 'twill be thine another Day.
[Exeunt.
Boyet.
Who is the Shooter? who is the Shooter?
Rosa.
Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet.
Ay, my Continent of Beauty.
Rosa.
Why she that bears the Bow. Finely put off.
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?
Rosa.
If we chuse by Horns, your self; come not near.
Finely put on indeed.
Mar.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the Brow.
Boyet.
But she her self is hit lower.
Have I hit her now?
Rosa.
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.
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'st not hit it, hit it, hit it.
Thou can'st not hit it, my good Man.
Boyet.
I cannot, cannot, cannot.
And I cannot another can.
[Exit. Rosa.
Cost.
By my troth most pleasant, how both did fit it.
Mar.
A Mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it.
-- 419 --
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 a'th bow Hand, i'faith your Hand is out.
Cost.
Indeed a'must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the Clout.
Boyet.
And if my Hand be out, then belike your Hand is in.
Cost.
Then will she get the upshot by cleaving the Pin.
Mar.
Come, come, you talk greasily, your Lips grow foul.
Cost.
She's too hard for you at Pricks, Sir, challenge her to bowl.
Boyet.
I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good Owl.
Cost.
By my Soul a Swain, a most simple Clown.
Lord, Lord! how the Ladies and I have put him down.
O my troth most sweet Jests, most incony vulgar Wit,
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.
Armado a'th to side, O 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 swear:
And his Page at other side, that handful of Wit,
Ah Heav'ns! it is a most pathetical Nit.
Sowla, Sowla,
[Exeunt.
Shout within.
Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Nathaniel.
Nath.
Very reverent Sport truly, and done in the Testimony
of a good Conscience.
Hol.
The Deer was (as you know) sanguis in Blood, ripe
as a Pomwater, who now hangeth like a Jewel in the Ear of
Cœlo the Sky, the Welkin, the Heaven, and anon falleth like
a Crab on the face of Terra, the Soil, the Land, the
Earth.
Nath.
Truly Master Holofernes, the Epithetes are sweetly
varied like a Schollar at the least: But, Sir, I assure ye, it
was a Buck of the first Head.
Hol.
Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.
Dull.
'Twas not a haud credo, 'twas a Pricket.
-- 420 --
Hol.
Most barbarous Intimation; yet a kind of Insinuation,
as it were in via, in way of Explication facere, as it
were Replication, or rather ostentare, to show as it were his
Inclination after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned,
untrained, or rather unlettered, or ratherest unconfirmed
Fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a Deer.
Dull.
I said the Deer was not a haud credo, 'twas a
Pricket.
Hol.
Twice sod Simplicity, bis coctus; O thou Monster
Ignorance, how deformed doest thou look?
Nath.
Sir, he hath never fed on the Dainties that are bred in a Book.
He hath not eat Paper as it were;
He hath not drunk Ink.
His Intellect is not replenished, he is only an Animal, only
sensible in the duller parts; and such barren Plants are set
before us, that we thankful should be; which we taste, and
feeling, are for those Parts that do fructifie in us more than
he.
For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a Fool;
So were there a Patch set on Learning, to see him in a School.
But omne bene say I, being of an old Father's Mind,
Many can brook the Weather, that love not the Wind.
Dull.
You too are Book-men; Can you tell by your Wit,
what was a Month old at Caius Birth, that's not five Weeks
old as yet?
Hol.
Dictinna Good-man Dull, Dictinna Good-man Dull.
Dull.
What is Dictinna?
Nath.
A Title to Phebe, to Luna, to the Moon.
Hol.
The Moon was a Month old when Adam was no more.
And wrought not to five Weeks when he came to fivescore.
Th' Allusion holds in the Exchange.
Dull.
'Tis true indeed, the Collusion holds in the Exchange.
Hol.
God comfort thy Capacity, I say the Allusion holds
in the Exchange.
Dull.
And I say the Pollusion holds in the Exchange; for
the Moon is never but a Month old; and I say beside that, 'twas
a Pricket that the Princess kill'd.
-- 421 --
Hol.
Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal Epitaph on
the Death of the Deer, and to humour the Ignorant, I have
call'd the Deer the Princess kill'd, a Pricket.
Nath.
Perge good Master Holofernes, Perge, so it shall please
you to abrogate Scurrility.
Hol.
I will something affect the Letter, for it argues Facility.
The praiseful Princess pierc'd and prickt
a pretty pleasing Pricket.
Some say a Sore, but not a Sore,
'till now made sore with shooting.
The Dogs did yell, put Ell to Sore,
then Sorrel jumps from Thicket;
Or Pricket-sore, or else Sorell,
the People fall a hooting.
If Sore be Sore, then Ell to Sore,
makes fifty Sores, O Sorell!
Of one Sore I an hundred make,
by adding but one more L.
Nath.
A rare Talent.
Dull.
If a Talent be a Claw, look how he claws him with
a Talent.
Nath.
This is a Gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish
extravagant Spirit, full of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects,
Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions. These are begot
in the Ventricle of Memory, nourish'd in the Womb of
Pia mater, and deliver'd upon the mellowing of Occasion;
but the Gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am
thankful for it.
Hol.
Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may our Parishioners,
for their Sons are well tutor'd by you, and their Daughters
profit very greatly under you; you are a good Member
of the Commonwealth.
Nath.
Me hercule, If their Sons be ingenuous, they shall
want no Instruction: If their Daughters be capable, I will
put it to them. But Vir sapit, qui pauca loquitur, a Soul Feminine
saluteth us.
Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.
Jaq.
God give good Morrow, Master Parson.
Hol..
Master Parson, quasi Person. And if one should be
pierc'd, which is the one?
-- 422 --
Cost.
Marry Master School-master, he that is likest to a
Hogshead.
Hol.
Of persing a Hogshead, a good Cluster of Conceit
in a Turph of Earth, Fire enough for a Flint, Pearl enough
for a Swine: 'Tis pretty, it is well.
Jaq.
Good Master Parson be so good as read me this
Letter; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don
Armatho. I beseech you read it.
Hol.
Fauste precor gelida, quando, pecus omne sub umbrâ,
ruminat, and so forth. Ah good old Mantuan, I may speak
of thee as the Traveller doth of Venice; Venechi, venache a,
qui non te vide, i non te piaech. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan.
Who understandeth thee not, ut re sol la mifa. Under
pardon Sir, What are the Contents? or rather, as Horace
says in his; What! my Soul Verses.
Nath.
Ay Sir, and very learned.
Hol.
Let me hear a Staff, a Stanza, a Verse; Lege domine.
Nath.
If Love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to Love?
Ah, never Faith could hold, if not to Beauty vow'd;
Though to my self forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove,
Those Thoughts to me were Oaks, to thee like Osiers bow'd.
Study his Biass leaves, and makes his Book thine Eyes;
Where all those Pleasures live, that Art would comprehend.
If Knowledge be the Mark, to know thee shall suffice,
Well learned is that Tongue, that well can thee commend.
All ignorant that Soul, that sees thee without Wonder:
Which is to me some Praise, that I thy Parts admire;
Thy Eye Jove's Lightning bears, thy Voice his dreadful Thunder;
Which not to Anger bent, is Musick, and sweet Fire.
Celestial as thou art, Oh pardon, Love, this Wrong,
That sings Heav'n's Praise with such an Earthly Tongue.
Hol.
You find not the Apostrophes, and so miss the Accent.
Let me supervise the Cangenet.
Nath.
Here are only Numbers ratify'd, but for the Elegancy,
Facility, and golden Cadence of Poesie caret: Ovidius
Naso was the Man. And why indeed Naso; but for smelling
out the odoriferous Flowers of Fancy? The Jerks of Invention
-- 423 --
imitary is nothing: So doth the Hound his Master,
the Ape his Keeper, the tir'd Horse his Rider: But Damosella
Virgin, was this directed to you?
Jaq.
Ay Sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange
Queen's Lords.
Nath.
I will overglance the Superscript.
To the snow-white Hand of the most beauteous Lady, Rosaline.
I will look again on the Intellect of the Letter, for
the Nomination of the Party writing, to the Person written
unto.
Your Ladyship's in all desir'd Employment, Biron.
Dull.
Sir Holofernes, this Biron is one of the Votaries with
the King, and here he hath fram'd a Letter to a Sequent of
the stranger Queen's, which accidentally, or by the way of
Progression, hath miscarry'd. Trip and go my sweet; deliver
this Paper into the Hand of the King; it may concern
much; stay not thy Complement; I forgive thy Duty:
Adieu.
Jaq.
Good Costard go with me.
Sir, God save your Life.
Cost.
Have with thee, my Girl.
[Exit. Cost. and Jaq.
Hol.
Sir, you have done this in the Fear of God, very
Religiously: and as a certain Father saith—
Dull.
Sir, tell not me of the Father, I do fear colourable
Colours. But to return to the Verses: Did they please you,
Sir Nathaniel?
Nath.
Marvellous well for the Pen.
Hol.
I do dine to Day at the Father's of a certain Pupil
of mine; where if (being repast) it shall please you to gratifie
the Table with a Grace; I will on my Priviledge I have
with the Parents of the foresaid Child and Pupil, undertake
your bien venuto, where I will prove those Verses to be very
unlearned, neither savouring of Poetry, Wit or Invention.
I beseech your Society.
Nath.
And thank you too: for Society (saith the Text)
is the Happiness of Life.
Hol.
And certes the Text most infallibly concludes it.
Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: Pauca
verba.
-- 424 --
Away, the Gentles are at their Game, and we will to our Recreation.
[Exeunt.
Enter Biron with a Paper in his Hand, alone.
Bion.
The King he is hunting the Deer.
I am coursing my self.
They have pitcht a Toyl, I am toyling in a Pitch, Pitch
that defiles; defile, a foul Word: Well, set thee down Sorrow;
for so they say the Fool said, and so say I, and I the
Fool. Well prov'd Wit. By the Lord this Love is as mad
as Ajax, it kills Sheep, it kills me, I a Sheep. Well prov'd
again on my Side. I will not love; if I do, hang me:
I'faith I will not. O but her Eye: By this Light, but for
her Eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two Eyes.
Well, I do nothing in the World but lie, and lie in my
Throat. By Heaven I do love, and it hath taught me to
Rhime, and to be Melancholly; and here is part of my Rhime,
and here my Melancholly. Well, she hath one a'my Sonnets
already; the Clown bore it, the Fool sent it, and the Lady
hath it: Sweet Clown, sweeter Fool, sweetest Lady. By the
World, I would not care a Pin if the other three were
in. Here comes one with a Paper, God give him Grace to
groan.
[He stands aside.
Enter the King.
King.
Ay me.
Biron.
Shot, by Heav'n! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast
thumpt him with thy Birdbolt under the left Pap: In faith
Secrets.
King.
So sweet a Kiss the golden Sun gives not,
To those fresh Morning Drops upon the Rose,
As thy Eye-beams when their fresh Rays have smote
The Night of Dew that on my Cheeks down flows;
Nor shines the silver Moon one half so bright,
Through the transparent Bosom of the Deep,
As doth thy Face through Tears of mine give Light;
Thou shin'st in every Tear that I do weep;
No Drop, but as a Coach doth carry thee,
So ridest thou triumphing in my Woe.
Do but behold the Tears that swell in me,
And they thy Glory through my Grief will shew:
But do not love thy self, then thou wilt keep
My Tears for Glasses, and still make me weep.
-- 425 --
O Queen of Queens, how far do'st thou excel!
No Thought can think, nor Tongue of Mortal tell.
How she shall know my Griefs? I'll drop the Paper;
Sweet Leaves shade Folly. Who is he comes here?
Enter Longavile.
[The King steps aside.
What! Longavile! and reading: Listen Ear.
Biron.
Now in thy Likeness one more Fool appears.
King.
Ay me, I am forsworn.
Biron.
Why he comes in like a Perjur'd, wearing Papers.
Long.
In Love I hope, sweet Fellowship in Shame.
Biron.
One Drunkard loves another of the Name.
Long.
Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?
Biron.
I could put thee in Comfort: Not by two that I know,
Thou mak'st the Triumvirat the three Corner-Cap of Society,
The Shape of Loves Tiburu, that hangs up Simplicity.
Long.
I fear these stubborn Lines lack Power to move:
O sweet Maria, Empress of my Love,
These Numbers will I tear, and write in Prose.
Biron.
O Rhimes are Guards on wanton Cupid's Hose:
Disfigure not his Shop.
Long.
This same shall go.
[He reads the Sonnet.
Did not the heavenly Rhetorick of thine Eye,
'Gainst whom the World cannot hold Argument;
Persuade my Heart to this false Perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not Punishment:
A Woman I forswore, but I will prove,
Thou being a Goddess, I forswore not thee.
My Vow was earthy, thou a heav'nly Love:
Thy Grace being gain'd, cures all Disgrace in me.
Vows are but Breath, and Breath a Vapour is,
Then thou fair Sun, which on my Earth dost shine,
Exhal'st this Vapour-Vow; in thee it is;
If broken then, it is no Fault of mine;
If by me broke, what Fool is not so wise,
To lose an Oath to win a Paradise?
Biron.
This is the Liver-vein, which makes Flesh a Deity;
A green Goose a Goddess, pure, pure Idolatry.
God amend us, God amend, we are much out o'th' way.
-- 426 --
Enter Dumain.
Long.
By whom shall I send this! (Company?) Stay.
Biron.
All hid, all hid, an old infant Play;
Like a Demy God, here sit I in the Sky;
And wretched Fools Secrets heedfully o'er eye:
More Sacks to the Mill! O Heav'ns I have my Wish,
Dumain transform'd; four Woodcocks in a Dish.
Dum.
O most divine Kate.
Biron.
O most prophane Coxcomb.
Dum.
By Heav'n the Wonder of a mortal Eye.
Biron.
By Earth she is not; Corporal, there you lie.
Dum.
Her Amber Hairs for Fowl have Amber coted.
Biron.
An Amber-colour'd Raven was well noted.
Dum.
As upright as the Cedar.
Biron.
Stoop I say, her Shoulder is with Child.
Dum.
As fair as Day.
Biron.
Ay as some Days; but then no Sun must shine.
Dum.
O that I had my Wish?
Long.
And I had mine.
King.
And mine too, good Lord.
Biron.
Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good Word?
Dum.
I would forget her, but a Feaver she
Reigns in my Blood, and will remembred be.
Biron.
A Feaver in your Blood! Why then Incision
Would let her out in Sawcers, sweet Misprision.
Dum.
Once more I'll read the Ode that I have writ.
Biron.
Once more I'll mark how Love can vary Wit.
Dumain reads his Sonnet.
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, can Passage find.
That the Lover sick to death,
Wish'd himself the Heav'n's Breath.
Air, (quoth he) thy Cheeks to blow,
Air, would I might triumph so.
But alack my Hand is sworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy Throne:
-- 427 --
Vow alack for Youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a Sweet.
Do not call it Sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee.
Thou for whom Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning Mortal for thy Love.
This will I send, and something else more plain,
That shall express my true Love's fasting Pain;
O would the King, Biron and Longavile,
Were Lovers too, ill to example ill
Would from my Fore-head wipe a perjur'd Note:
For none offend, where all alike do dote.
Lon.
Dumain, thy Love is far from Charity,
That in Loves Grief desir'st Society:
[Coming forward.
You may look pale, but I should blush I know,
To be o'er-heard, and taken napping so.
King.
Come, Sir, you blush; as his, your Case is such,
[Coming forward.
You chide at him, offending twice as much.
You do not love Maria, Longavile
Did never Sonnet for her sake compile;
Nor never lay'd his wreathed Arms athwart
His loving Bosom, to keep down his Heart.
I have been closely shrowded in this Bush
And markt you both, and for you both did blush.
I heard your guilty Rimes, observ'd your Fashion;
Saw Sighs reek from you, noted well your Passion.
Ah me, says one! O Jove, the other cries!
Her Hairs were Gold, Crystal the others Eyes.
You would for Paradise break faith and troth,
And Jove for your Love would infringe an Oath.
What will Biron say, when that he shall hear
A Faith infringed, which such Zeal did swear?
How will he scorn? how will he spend his Wit?
How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it?
For all the Wealth that ever I did see,
I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron.
Now step I forth to whip Hypocrisie.
Ah good my Liege, I pray thee pardon me.
[Coming forward.
-- 428 --
Good heart, what grace hast thou thus to reprove
These Worms for loving, that ar't most in love?
Your Eyes do make no Couches in your Tears,
There is no certain Princess that appears.
You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing:
Tush, none but Minstrels like of Sonnetting.
But are you not asham'd? Nay, are you not
All three of you, to be thus much o'er-shot?
You found his Mote, the King your Mote did see:
But I a Beam do find in each of three.
O what a Scene of Fool'ry have I seen,
Of Sighs, of Groans, of Sorrow, and of Teen?
O me, with what strict Patience have I sat,
To see a King transformed to a Gnat?
To see great Hercules whipping a Gigg,
And profound Solomon tuning a Jygg?
And Nestor play at Push-pin with the Boys,
And Critick Tymon laugh at idle Toys,
Where lyes thy Grief? O tell me good Dumain;
And gentle Longavile, where lyes thy Pain?
And where my Liege's? all about the Breast.
A Candle hoa?
King.
Too bitter is thy Jest,
Are we betrayed thus to thy Over-view?
Biron.
Not you by me, but I betrayed to you.
I that am honest, I that hold it Sin,
To break the Vow I am ingaged in.
I am betray'd by keeping Company
With Men, like Men of strange Inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in Rhime?
Or groan for Joan? or spend a Minute's time
In pruning me? When shall you hear that I will praise a Hand,
a Foot, a Face, an Eye, a Gate, a State, a Brow, a Breast,
a Waste, a Leg, a Limb?
King.
Soft, whither away so fast?
A true Man, or a Thief, that gallops so.
Biron.
I post from Love, good Lover let me go.
Enter Jaquenetta, and Costard.
Jaq.
God bless the King.
King.
What Present hast thou there?
Cost.
Some certain Treason.
-- 429 --
King.
What makes Treason here?
Cost.
Nay it makes nothing, Sir.
King.
If it mar nothing neither,
The Treason and you go in Peace together.
Jaq.
I beseech your Grace, let this Letter be read,
Our Person misdoubts it: it was Treason he said.
King. Biron.
Read it over.
He reads the Letter.
Where hadst thou it?
Jaq.
Of Costard.
King.
Where hadst thou it?
Cost.
Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
King.
How now, what mean you? why dost thou tear
it?
Biron.
A Toy, my Liege, a Toy: Your Grace needs not
fear it.
Long.
It did move him to Passion, and therefore let's
hear it.
Dum.
It is Biron's Writing, and here is his Name.
Biron.
Ah you whoreson Loggerhead, you were born to
do me Shame.
Guilty my Lord, guilty: I confess, I confess.
King.
What?
Biron.
That you three Fools lackt me Fool, to make up
the Mess.
He, he, and you: and you my Liege, and I,
Are Pick-purses in Love, and we deserve to dye.
O dismiss this Audience, and I shall tell you more.
Dum.
Now the Number is even.
Biron.
True, true, we are four: Will these Turtles be
gone?
King.
Hence, Sirs, away.
Cost.
Walk aside the true Folk, and let the Traitors stay.
Biron.
Sweet Lords, sweet Lovers, O let us imbrace:
As true we are as Flesh and Blood can be.
The Sea will ebb and flow, Heav'n will shew his Face:
Young Blood doth not obey an old Decree.
We cannot cross the Cause why we were born:
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
King.
What did these Rent-lines shew some Love of
thine?
-- 430 --
Biron.
Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline.
That (like a rude and savage Man of Inde)
At the first opening of the gorgeous East,
Bows not his vassal Head, and strucken blind,
Kisses the base Ground with obedient Breast?
What peremptory Eagle-sighted Eye
Dares look upon the Heav'n of her Brow,
That is not blinded by her Majesty?
King.
What Zeal, what Fury hath inspir'd thee now?
My Love (her Mistress) is a gracious Moon,
She (an attending Star) scarce seen a Light.
Biron.
My Eyes are then no Eyes, nor I Biron.
O but for my Love, Day would turn to Night,
Of all Complexions the cull'd Soveraignty,
Do meet as at a Fair in her fair Cheek;
Where several Worthies make one Dignity,
Where nothing wants that Want it self doth seek.
Lend me the Flourish of all gentle Tongues;
Fie painted Rhetorick, O she needs it not:
To Things of Sale, a Seller's Praise belongs:
She passes Praise, then Praise too short doth blot:
A wither'd Hermite, fivescore Winters worn,
Might shake off fifty, looking in her Eye:
Beauty doth varnish Age, as if new born,
And gives the Crutch the Cradle's Infancy.
O 'tis the Sun that maketh all things shine.
King.
By Heaven thy Love is black as Ebony.
Biron.
Is Ebony like her? O Wood Divine?
A Wife of such Wood were Felicity.
O who can give an Oath? Where is a Book?
That I may swear Beauty doth Beauty lack,
If that she learn not of her Eye to look:
No Face is fair that is not full so black.
King.
O Paradox, black as the Badge of Hell;
The Hue of Dungeons, and the School of Night;
And Beauty's Crest becomes the Heav'ns well.
Biron.
Devils soonest tempt resembling Spirits of Light:
O, if in black my Lady's Brow be deckt;
It mourns, that painting and usurping Hair
Should ravish Doters with a false Aspect:
-- 431 --
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her Favour turns the Fashion of the Days,
For native Blood is counted Painting now:
And therefore red that would avoid Dispraise,
Paints it self black, to imitate her Brow.
Dum.
To look like her are Chimney-Sweepers black?
Long.
And since her time, are Colliers counted bright?
King.
And Ethiops of their sweet Complexion crack?
Dum.
Dark needs no Candles now, for Dark is Light.
Biron.
Your Mistresses dare never come in Rain,
For fear their Colours should be washt away.
King.
'Twere good yours did: for, Sir, to tell you plain,
I'll find a fairer Face not washt to Day.
Biron.
I'll prove her fair, or talk 'till Dooms-day here.
King.
No Devil will fright thee then so much as she.
Dum.
I never knew Man hold vile Stuff so dear.
Long.
Look, here's thy Love, my Foot and her Face see.
Biron.
O if the Streets were paved with thine Eyes,
Her Feet were much too dainty for such Tread.
Dum.
O vile, then as she goes, what upward lyes?
The Street should see as she walk'd over head.
King.
But what of this, are we not all in Love?
Biron.
Nothing so sure, and thereby all forsworn.
King.
Then leave this Chat, and good Biron now prove
Our loving lawful, and our Faith not torn.
Dum.
Ay marry there, some Flattery for this Evil.
Long.
O some Authority how to proceed,
Some Tricks, some Quillets, how to cheat the Devil.
Dum.
Some Salve for Perjury.
Biron.
O 'tis more than need.
Have at you then Affections, Men at Arms,
Consider what you first did swear unto:
To fast, to study, and to see no Woman;
Flat Treason 'gainst the kingly State of Youth.
Say, Can you fast? your Stomachs are too young:
And Abstinence ingenders Maladies.
And where that you have vow'd to study (Lords)
In that each of you have forsworn his Book.
Can you still dream and pore, and thereon look?
For when would you, my Lord, or you, or you.
Have found the Ground of Study's Excellence,
-- 432 --
Without the Beauty of a Woman's Face;
From Womens Eyes this Doctrine I derive,
They are the Ground, the Books, the Academs,
From whence doth spring the true Promethean Fire:
Why, universal plodding poisons up
The nimble Spirits in the Arteries;
As Motion and long Action tires
The sinnewy Vigour of the Traveller.
Now for not looking on a Woman's Face,
You have in that forsworn the use of Eyes:
And Study too, the causer of your Vow.
For where is any Author in the World,
Teaches such Beauty as a Woman's Eye:
Learning is but an Adjunct to our self,
And where we are, our Learning likewise is.
Then when our selves we see in Lady's Eyes,
Do we not likewise see our Learning there?
O, we have made a Vow to study, Lords,
And in that Vow we have forsworn our Books:
For when would you, my Liege, or you, or you,
In Leaden Contemplation have found out
Such fiery Numbers as the prompting Eyes
Of Beauties Tutors have enrich'd you with?
Other flow Arts entirely keep the Brain;
And therefore finding barren Practisers,
Scarce shew a Harvest of their heavy Toil.
But Love first learned in a Lady's Eyes,
Lives not alone imured in the Brain:
But with the motion of all Elements,
Courses as swift as Thought in every Power,
And gives to every Power a double Power,
Above their Functions and their Offices.
It adds a precious Seeing to the Eye:
A Lover's Eyes will gaze an Eagle blind.
A Lover's Ear will hear the lowest Sound,
When the suspicious Head of Theft is stopt.
Love's feeling is more soft and sensible,
Than are the tender Horns of cockled Snails.
Love's Tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in Taste;
For Valour, is not Love a Hercules?
Still climing Trees in the Hesperides.
-- 433 --
Subtle as a Sphinx, as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's Lute, strung with his Hair:
And when Love speaks, the Voice of all the Gods,
Make Heav'n drowsie with the Harmony.
Never durst Poet touch a Pen to write,
Until his Ink were temper'd with Love's Sighs;
O then his Lines would ravish Savage Ears,
And plant in Tyrants mild Humility.
From Womens Eyes this Doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean Fire,
They are the Books, the Arts, the Academes,
That shew, contain, and nourish all the World;
Else none at all in ought proves excellent.
Then Fools you were, these Women to forswear:
Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove Fools.
For Wisdom's sake (a Word that all Men love)
Or for Love's sake, a Word that loves all Men:
Or for Mens sake, the Author of these Women,
Or Womens sake, by whom we Men are Men;
Let us once lose our Oaths, to find our selves;
Or else we lose our selves, to keep our Oaths.
It is Religion to be thus forsworn,
For Charity it self fullfils the Law;
And who can sever Love from Charity?
King.
Saint Cupid then, and Soldiers to the Field.
Biron.
Advance your Standards, and upon them, Lords;
Pell, mell, down with them: But be first advis'd,
In Conflict that you get the Sun of them.
Long.
Now to Plain-dealing, lay these Glosses by,
Shall we resolve to woo these Girls of France.
King.
And win them too; therefore let us devise
Some Entertainment for them at their Tents.
Biron.
First from the Park let us conduct them thither,
Then homeward every Man attach the Hand
Of his fair Mistress; in the Afternoon
We will with some strange Pastime solace them,
Such as the shortness of the time can shape:
For Revels, Dances, Masks, and merry Hours,
Forerun fair Love, strewing her Way with Flowers.
King.
Away, away, no time shall be omitted,
That will be time, and may by us be fitted.
-- 434 --
Biron.
Alone, alone sowed Cockel, reap'd no Corn,
And Justice always whirls in equal Measure:
Light Wenches may prove Plagues to Men forsworn,
If so, our Copper buys no better Treasure.
[Exeunt.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
