Princess.
Was 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 murtherer in?

For.
Here by, 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, madam: 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 fair praise.
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;
^{1 note}
When for fame's sake, 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, ^{2 note}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 commonwealth.

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.
^{3 note}

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.—^{4 note}
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.

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 he? 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 Adriano de Armado.

Prin.
What plume of feathers 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 ere while.

Boyet.
This Armado is a Spaniard that 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?

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. [Exit Princess attended.

Boyet.
Who is the shooter? who is the shooter?

Ros.
Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet.
Ay, my continent of beauty.

Ros.
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.—

Ros.
Well then, I am the shooter.

Boyet.
And who is your Deer?

Ros.
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?

Ros.

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.

Ros.
Thou can'st not hit it, hit it, hit it. [Singing.
Thou can'st not hit it, my good man. Boyet.
An' I cannot, cannot, cannot;
An' I cannot, another can. [Exit Ros.

Cost.
By my troth, most pleasant; how both did fit it.

Mar.
A mark marvellous well shot; 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.

Cost.
Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.

Boyet.
An' 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. [Exeunt all but Costard.

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 in-cony vulgar wit,
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely; as it were, so fit.
Armado o' th' one 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 o' t'other side, that handful of Wit;
Ah, heav'ns! it is a most pathetical Nit. [Exit Costard. [Shouting within.

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