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Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].

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SCENE IX. 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, hony 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 coupplement.

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—

Boyet.
You lye, you are not he.

-- 275 --

Cost.
I Pompey am—

Boyet.
³ ^noteWith Libbard's head on knee.

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.

-- 276 --

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 cloth for this; your lion, that holds the pollax sitting on a close-stool, 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'er-parted: 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.

-- 277 --

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.
An 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.

-- 278 --

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.

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 breath'd, 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.

Cost.

The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone;

-- 279 --

she is two months on her way.

Arm.

What mean'st thou?

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 it 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?

-- 280 --

Arm.

The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

&wlquo;Boyet.

&wlquo;True, and ⁴ ^noteit was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of linnen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that he wears next his heart for a Favour.&wrquo;

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