Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold; King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. [Gives a paper. Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Ros. How needless was it then To ask the question! Biron. You must not be so quick. Ros. 'Tis 'long of you that spur me with such questions. Biron. What time o' day? Ros. The hour that fools should ask. Biron. Now fair befall your mask! Ros. Fair fall the face it covers ! Biron. And send you many lovers! Biron. Nay, then will I be gone. King. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say, that he, or we, (as neither have), Received that sum; yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which One part of Aquitain is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, Which we much rather had depart withal, Dear princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding, 'gainst some reason, in my breast, Prin. You do the king my father too much wrong, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. Prin. We arrest your word:- King. Satisfy me so. Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not come, King. It shall suffice me: at which interview, Mean time, receive such welcome at my hand, Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your grace! [Exeunt KING and his Train. Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own heart. Ros. 'Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. Biron. I would you heard it groan. Ros. Is the fool sick? Biron. Sick at heart. Ros. Alack, let it blood. Biron. Would that do it good? Ros. My physic says, I.* Biron. Will you prick't with your eye? Ros. No poynt,t with my knife. Biron. Now, god save thy life! Ros. And yours from long living! Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring. [Exit. Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word: What lady is that same ? shame. • Aye, yes. † Point, an emphatic French negation. Long. Pray you, Sir, whose daughter? Boyet. Not unlike, Sir, that may be. Boyet. To her will, Sir, or so. Biron. You are welcome, Sir; adieu! [Exit LONGAVILLE Boyet. Farewell to me, Sir, and welcome to you. [Exit BIRON.-Ladies unmask. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. Boyet. And every jest but a word. Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his word. Boyet. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. Mar. You sheep, and I pasture; Shall that finish the jest? Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. Mar. Not so, gentle beast; My lips are no common, though several* they be. Boyet. Belonging to whom? Mar. To my fortunes and me. Prin. Good wits will be jangling: but, gentles, agree: On Navarre and his book-men; for here 'tis abused. Prin. With what? Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle, affected. Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire Methought, all his senses were lock'd in his eye, Who, tend'ring their own worth, from where they were glass ů. *Severals, pieces of land adjoining a common, allotted for a time to particular cultivators. + Through, His face's own margent did quote such amazes, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his eye hath disclosed. I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. Ros. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. Ros. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches? Mar. No. Boyet. What then, do you see? Ros. Ay, our way to be gone. Boyet. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I-Another part of the same. Enter ARMADO and MOTH. Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. [Singing. Arm. Sweet air!-Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately‡ hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love. Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl ?§ Moth. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary|| to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids; sigh a note, and sing a note; sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love; sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like, o'er the shop of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away: These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches-that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note, (do you note, men ?) that most are affected to these. Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience? * Wantonly merry. + Probably the commencement of a song, which, as being well known at the time, it was not thought necessary to print. A dance, like the cotillon. + Hastily. Accomplishments. Arm. But 0,-but 0, Moth. the hobby-horse is forgot. Arm. Callest thou my love, hobby-horse? Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love, perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love? Arm. Almost I had. Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart. Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy. Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove. Arm. What wilt thou prove? Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: By heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her: in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. Arm. I am all these three. Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. Arm. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter. Moth. A message well sympathised; a horse to be ambassador for an ass! Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou? Moth. Marry, Sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited: But I go. Arm. The way is but short; away. Moth. As swift as lead, Sir. Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? Moth. Mimine, honest master; or rather, master, no. Arm. I say, lead is slow. Moth. You are too swift, Sir, to say so: Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun? Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:- Moth. Thump then, and I flee. Arm. A most acute juvenal; voluble and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face: Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. Re-enter MOTH and COSTARD. [Exit. Moth. A wonder, master; here's a Costard broken in a shin. Arm. Some enigma, some riddle: come-thy Penvoy;§-begin. Cost. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, Sir: O, Sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy, no salve, Sir, but a plantain ! Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word, l'envoy, for a salve ? * Minimè, (Latin) by no means. The concluding stanza of a poem; dedication of the work. + Ský. A head. used to indicate its moral, or is Bag. |