{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/lll.htm","path":"sks/ff/lll.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/lll.htm","text":"Actus primus.\nEnter Ferdinand King of Nauarre, Berowne, Longauill, and\nDumane.\nFerdinand. Let Fame, that all hunt after in their liues,\nLiue registred vpon our brazen Tombes,\nAnd then grace vs in the disgrace of death:\nwhen spight of cormorant deuouring Time,\nTh' endeuour of this present breath may buy:\nThat honour which shall bate his sythes keene edge,\nAnd make vs heyres of all eternitie.\nTherefore braue Conquerours, for so you are,\nThat warre against your owne affections,\nAnd the huge Armie of the worlds desires.\nOur late edict shall strongly stand in force,\nNauar shall be the wonder of the world.\nOur Court shall be a little Achademe,\nStill and contemplatiue in liuing Art.\nYou three, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longauill,\nHaue sworne for three yeeres terme, to liue with me:\nMy fellow Schollers, and to keepe those statutes\nThat are recorded in this scedule heere.\nYour oathes are past, and now subscribe your names:\nThat his owne hand may strike his honour downe,\nThat violates the smallest branch heerein:\nIf you are arm'd to doe, as sworne to do,\nSubscribe to your deepe oathes, and keepe it to\nLongauill. I am resolu'd, 'tis but a three yeeres fast:\nThe minde shall banquet, though the body pine,\nFat paunches haue leane pates: and dainty bits,\nMake rich the ribs, but bankerout the wits\nDumane. My louing Lord, Dumane is mortified,\nThe grosser manner of these worlds delights,\nHe throwes vpon the grosse worlds baser slaues:\nTo loue, to wealth, to pompe, I pine and die,\nWith all these liuing in Philosophie\nBerowne. I can but say their protestation ouer,\nSo much, deare Liege, I haue already sworne,\nThat is, to liue and study heere three yeeres.\nBut there are other strict obseruances:\nAs not to see a woman in that terme,\nWhich I hope well is not enrolled there.\nAnd one day in a weeke to touch no foode:\nAnd but one meale on euery day beside:\nThe which I hope is not enrolled there.\nAnd then to sleepe but three houres in the night,\nAnd not be seene to winke of all the day.\nWhen I was wont to thinke no harme all night,\nAnd make a darke night too of halfe the day:\nWhich I hope well is not enrolled there.\nO, these are barren taskes, too hard to keepe,\nNot to see Ladies, study, fast, not sleepe\nFerd. Your oath is past, to passe away from these\nBerow. Let me say no my Liedge, and if you please,\nI onely swore to study with your grace,\nAnd stay heere in your Court for three yeeres space\nLonga. You swore to that Berowne, and to the rest\nBerow. By yea and nay sir, than I swore in iest.\nWhat is the end of study, let me know?\nFer. Why that to know which else wee should not\nknow\nBer. Things hid & bard (you meane) fro[m] co[m]mon sense\nFerd. I, that is studies god-like recompence\nBero. Come on then, I will sweare to studie so,\nTo know the thing I am forbid to know:\nAs thus, to study where I well may dine,\nWhen I to fast expressely am forbid.\nOr studie where to meete some Mistresse fine,\nWhen Mistresses from common sense are hid.\nOr hauing sworne too hard a keeping oath,\nStudie to breake it, and not breake my troth.\nIf studies gaine be thus, and this be so,\nStudie knowes that which yet it doth not know,\nSweare me to this, and I will nere say no\nFerd. These be the stops that hinder studie quite,\nAnd traine our intellects to vaine delight\nBer. Why? all delights are vaine, and that most vaine\nWhich with paine purchas'd, doth inherit paine,\nAs painefully to poare vpon a Booke,\nTo seeke the light of truth, while truth the while\nDoth falsely blinde the eye-sight of his looke:\nLight seeking light, doth light of light beguile:\nSo ere you finde where light in darkenesse lies,\nYour light growes darke by losing of your eyes.\nStudie me how to please the eye indeede,\nBy fixing it vpon a fairer eye,\nWho dazling so, that eye shall be his heed,\nAnd giue him light that it was blinded by.\nStudie is like the heauens glorious Sunne,\nThat will not be deepe search'd with sawcy lookes:\nSmall haue continuall plodders euer wonne,\nSaue base authoritie from others Bookes.\nThese earthly Godfathers of heauens lights,\nThat giue a name to euery fixed Starre,\nHaue no more profit of their shining nights,\nThen those that walke and wot not what they are.\nToo much to know, is to know nought but fame:\nAnd euery Godfather can giue a name\nFer. How well hee's read, to reason against reading\nDum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding\nLon. Hee weedes the corne, and still lets grow the\nweeding\nBer. The Spring is neare when greene geesse are a\nbreeding\nDum. How followes that?\nBer. Fit in his place and time\nDum. In reason nothing\nBer. Something then in rime\nFerd. Berowne is like an enuious sneaping Frost,\nThat bites the first borne infants of the Spring\nBer. Wel, say I am, why should proud Summer boast,\nBefore the Birds haue any cause to sing?\nWhy should I ioy in any abortiue birth?\nAt Christmas I no more desire a Rose,\nThen wish a Snow in Mayes new fangled showes:\nBut like of each thing that in season growes.\nSo you to studie now it is too late,\nThat were to clymbe ore the house to vnlocke the gate\nFer. Well, sit you out: go home Berowne: adue\nBer. No my good Lord, I haue sworn to stay with you.\nAnd though I haue for barbarisme spoke more,\nThen for that Angell knowledge you can say,\nYet confident Ile keepe what I haue sworne,\nAnd bide the pennance of each three yeares day.\nGiue me the paper, let me reade the same,\nAnd to the strictest decrees Ile write my name\nFer. How well this yeelding rescues thee from shame\nBer. Item. That no woman shall come within a mile\nof my Court.\nHath this bin proclaimed?\nLon. Foure dayes agoe\nBer. Let's see the penaltie.\nOn paine of loosing her tongue.\nWho deuis'd this penaltie?\nLon. Marry that did I\nBer. Sweete Lord, and why?\nLon. To fright them hence with that dread penaltie,\nA dangerous law against gentilitie.\nItem, If any man be seene to talke with a woman within\nthe tearme of three yeares, hee shall indure such\npublique shame as the rest of the Court shall possibly\ndeuise\nBer. This Article my Liedge your selfe must breake,\nFor well you know here comes in Embassie\nThe French Kings daughter, with your selfe to speake:\nA Maide of grace and compleate maiestie,\nAbout surrender vp of Aquitaine:\nTo her decrepit, sicke, and bed-rid Father.\nTherefore this Article is made in vaine,\nOr vainly comes th' admired Princesse hither\nFer. What say you Lords?\nWhy, this was quite forgot\nBer. So Studie euermore is ouershot,\nWhile it doth study to haue what it would,\nIt doth forget to doe the thing it should:\nAnd when it hath the thing it hunteth most,\n'Tis won as townes with fire, so won, so lost\nFer. We must of force dispence with this Decree,\nShe must lye here on meere necessitie\nBer. Necessity will make vs all forsworne\nThree thousand times within this three yeeres space:\nFor euery man with his affects is borne,\nNot by might mastred, but by speciall grace.\nIf I breake faith, this word shall breake for me,\nI am forsworne on meere necessitie.\nSo to the Lawes at large I write my name,\nAnd he that breakes them in the least degree,\nStands in attainder of eternall shame.\nSuggestions are to others as to me:\nBut I beleeue although I seeme so loth,\nI am the last that will last keepe his oth.\nBut is there no quicke recreation granted?\nFer. I that there is, our Court you know is hanted\nWith a refined trauailer of Spaine,\nA man in all the worlds new fashion planted,\nThat hath a mint of phrases in his braine:\nOne, who the musicke of his owne vaine tongue,\nDoth rauish like inchanting harmonie:\nA man of complements whom right and wrong\nHaue chose as vmpire of their mutinie.\nThis childe of fancie that Armado hight,\nFor interim to our studies shall relate,\nIn high-borne words the worth of many a Knight:\nFrom tawnie Spaine lost in the worlds debate.\nHow you delight my Lords, I know not I,\nBut I protest I loue to heare him lie,\nAnd I will vse him for my Minstrelsie\nBero. Armado is a most illustrious wight,\nA man of fire, new words, fashions owne Knight\nLon. Costard the swaine and he, shall be our sport,\nAnd so to studie, three yeeres is but short.\nEnter a Constable with Costard with a Letter.\nConst. Which is the Dukes owne person\nBer. This fellow, What would'st?\nCon. I my selfe reprehend his owne person, for I am\nhis graces Tharborough: But I would see his own person\nin flesh and blood\nBer. This is he\nCon. Signeor Arme, Arme commends you:\nTher's villanie abroad, this letter will tell you more\nClow. Sir the Contempts thereof are as touching\nmee\nFer. A letter from the magnificent Armado\nBer. How low soeuer the matter, I hope in God for\nhigh words\nLon. A high hope for a low heauen, God grant vs patience\nBer. To heare, or forbeare hearing\nLon. To heare meekely sir, and to laugh moderately,\nor to forbeare both\nBer. Well sir, be it as the stile shall giue vs cause to\nclime in the merrinesse\nClo. The matter is to me sir, as concerning Iaquenetta.\nThe manner of it is, I was taken with the manner\nBer. In what manner?\nClo. In manner and forme following sir all those three.\nI was seene with her in the Mannor house, sitting with\nher vpon the Forme, and taken following her into the\nParke: which put to gether, is in manner and forme\nfollowing. Now sir for the manner; It is the manner\nof a man to speake to a woman, for the forme in some\nforme\nBer. For the following sir\nClo. As it shall follow in my correction, and God defend\nthe right\nFer. Will you heare this Letter with attention?\nBer. As we would heare an Oracle\nClo. Such is the simplicitie of man to harken after the\nflesh\nFerdinand. Great Deputie, the Welkins Vicegerent, and sole\ndominator\nof Nauar, my soules earths God, and bodies fostring\npatrone:\nCost. Not a word of Costard yet\nFerd. So it is\nCost. It may be so: but if he say it is so, he is in telling\ntrue: but so\nFerd. Peace,\nClow. Be to me, and euery man that dares not fight\nFerd. No words,\nClow. Of other mens secrets I beseech you\nFerd. So it is besieged with sable coloured melancholie, I\ndid commend the blacke oppressing humour to the most\nwholesome\nPhysicke of thy health-giuing ayre: And as I am a Gentleman,\nbetooke my selfe to walke: the time When? about the\nsixt houre, When beasts most grase, birds best pecke, and men\nsit downe to that nourishment which is called supper: So much\nfor the time When. Now for the ground Which? which I\nmeane I walkt vpon, it is ycliped, Thy Parke. Then for the\nplace Where? where I meane I did encounter that obscene and\nmost preposterous euent that draweth from my snow-white pen\nthe ebon coloured Inke, which heere thou viewest, beholdest:\nsuruayest, or seest. But to the place Where? It standeth\nNorth North-east and by East from the West corner of thy\ncurious knotted garden; There did I see that low spirited\nSwaine, that base Minow of thy myrth,\nClown. Mee?\nFerd. that vnletered small knowing soule,\nClow Me?\nFerd. that shallow\nvassall\nClow. Still mee?)\nFerd. which as I remember, hight Costard,\nClow. O me)\nFerd. sorted and consorted contrary to thy established\nproclaymed Edict and Continent, Cannon: Which\nwith, o with, but with this I passion to say wherewith:\nClo. With a Wench\nFerd. With a childe of our Grandmother Eue, a female;\nor for thy more sweet understanding a woman: him, I (as my\neuer esteemed dutie prickes me on) haue sent to thee, to receiue\nthe meed of punishment by the sweet Graces Officer Anthony\nDull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, & estimation\nAnth. Me, an't shall please you? I am Anthony Dull\nFerd. For Iaquenetta (so is the weaker vessell called)\nwhich I apprehended with the aforesaid Swaine, I keepe her\nas a vessell of thy Lawes furie, and shall at the least of thy\nsweet notice, bring her to triall. Thine in all complements of\ndeuoted and heart-burning heat of dutie.\nDon Adriana de Armado\nBer. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best\nthat euer I heard\nFer. I the best, for the worst. But sirra, What say you\nto this?\nClo. Sir I confesse the Wench\nFer. Did you heare the Proclamation?\nClo. I doe confesse much of the hearing it, but little\nof the marking of it\nFer. It was proclaimed a yeeres imprisonment to bee\ntaken with a Wench\nClow. I was taken with none sir, I was taken with a\nDamosell\nFer. Well, it was proclaimed Damosell\nClo. This was no Damosell neyther sir, shee was a\nVirgin\nFer. It is so varried to, for it was proclaimed Virgin\nClo. If it were, I denie her Virginitie: I was taken\nwith a Maide\nFer. This Maid will not serue your turne sir\nClo. This Maide will serue my turne sir\nKin. Sir I will pronounce your sentence: You shall\nfast a Weeke with Branne and water\nClo. I had rather pray a Moneth with Mutton and\nPorridge\nKin. And Don Armado shall be your keeper.\nMy Lord Berowne, see him deliuer'd ore,\nAnd goe we Lords to put in practice that,\nWhich each to other hath so strongly sworne\nBero. Ile lay my head to any good mans hat,\nThese oathes and lawes will proue an idle scorne.\nSirra, come on\nClo. I suffer for the truth sir: for true it is, I was taken\nwith Iaquenetta, and Iaquenetta is a true girle, and\ntherefore welcome the sowre cup of prosperitie, affliction\nmay one day smile againe, and vntill then sit downe\nsorrow.\nEnter.\nEnter Armado and Moth his Page.\nArma. Boy, What signe is it when a man of great\nspirit growes melancholy?\nBoy. A great signe sir, that he will looke sad\nBrag. Why? sadnesse is one and the selfe-same thing\ndeare impe\nBoy. No no, O Lord sir no\nBrag. How canst thou part sadnesse and melancholy\nmy tender Iuuenall?\nBoy. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my\ntough signeur\nBrag. Why tough signeur? Why tough signeur?\nBoy. Why tender Iuuenall? Why tender Iuuenall?\nBrag. I spoke it tender Iuuenall, as a congruent apathaton,\nappertaining to thy young daies, which we may\nnominate tender\nBoy. And I tough signeur, as an appertinent title to\nyour olde time, which we may name tough\nBrag. Pretty and apt\nBoy. How meane you sir, I pretty, and my saying apt?\nor I apt, and my saying prettie?\nBrag. Thou pretty because little\nBoy. Little pretty, because little: wherefore apt?\nBrag. And therefore apt, because quicke\nBoy. Speake you this in my praise Master?\nBrag. In thy condigne praise\nBoy. I will praise an Eele with the same praise\nBrag. What? that an Eele is ingenuous\nBoy. That an Eele is quicke\nBrag. I doe say thou art quicke in answeres. Thou\nheat'st my bloud\nBoy. I am answer'd sir\nBrag. I loue not to be crost\nBoy. He speakes the meere contrary, crosses loue not him\nBr. I haue promis'd to study iij. yeres with the Duke\nBoy. You may doe it in an houre sir\nBrag. Impossible\nBoy. How many is one thrice told?\nBra. I am ill at reckning, it fits the spirit of a Tapster\nBoy. You are a gentleman and a gamester sir\nBrag. I confesse both, they are both the varnish of a\ncompleat man\nBoy. Then I am sure you know how much the grosse\nsumme of deus-ace amounts to\nBrag. It doth amount to one more then two\nBoy. Which the base vulgar call three\nBr. True\nBoy. Why sir is this such a peece of study?\nNow here's three studied, ere you'll thrice wink, & how\neasie it is to put yeres to the word three, and study three\nyeeres in two words, the dancing horse will tell you\nBrag. A most fine Figure\nBoy. To proue you a Cypher\nBrag. I will heereupon confesse I am in loue: and as\nit is base for a Souldier to loue; so am I in loue with a\nbase wench. If drawing my sword against the humour\nof affection, would deliuer mee from the reprobate\nthought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransome\nhim to any French Courtier for a new deuis'd curtsie. I\nthinke scorne to sigh, me thinkes I should out-sweare\nCupid. Comfort me Boy, What great men haue beene\nin loue?\nBoy. Hercules Master\nBrag. Most sweete Hercules: more authority deare\nBoy, name more; and sweet my childe let them be men\nof good repute and carriage\nBoy. Sampson Master, he was a man of good carriage,\ngreat carriage: for hee carried the Towne-gates on his\nbacke like a Porter: and he was in loue\nBrag. O well-knit Sampson, strong ioynted Sampson;\nI doe excell thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst mee\nin carrying gates. I am in loue too. Who was Sampsons\nloue my deare Moth?\nBoy. A Woman, Master\nBrag. Of what complexion?\nBoy. Of all the foure, or the three, or the two, or one\nof the foure\nBrag. Tell me precisely of what complexion?\nBoy. Of the sea-water Greene sir\nBrag. Is that one of the foure complexions?\nBoy. As I haue read sir, and the best of them too\nBrag. Greene indeed is the colour of Louers: but to\nhaue a Loue of that colour, methinkes Sampson had small\nreason for it. He surely affected her for her wit\nBoy. It was so sir, for she had a greene wit\nBrag. My Loue is most immaculate white and red\nBoy. Most immaculate thoughts Master, are mask'd\nvnder such colours\nBrag. Define, define, well educated infant\nBoy. My fathers witte, and my mothers tongue assist\nmee\nBrag. Sweet inuocation of a childe, most pretty and\npatheticall\nBoy. If shee be made of white and red,\nHer faults will nere be knowne:\nFor blushin cheekes by faults are bred,\nAnd feares by pale white showne:\nThen if she feare, or be to blame,\nBy this you shall not know,\nFor still her cheekes possesse the same,\nWhich natiue she doth owe:\nA dangerous rime master against the reason of white\nand redde\nBrag. Is there not a ballet Boy, of the King and the\nBegger?\nBoy. The world was very guilty of such a Ballet some\nthree ages since, but I thinke now 'tis not to be found: or\nif it were, it would neither serue for the writing, nor the\ntune\nBrag. I will haue that subiect newly writ ore, that I\nmay example my digression by some mighty president.\nBoy, I doe loue that Countrey girle that I tooke in\nthe Parke with the rationall hinde Costard: she deserues\nwell\nBoy. To bee whip'd: and yet a better loue then my\nMaster\nBrag. Sing Boy, my spirit grows heauy in loue\nBoy. And that's great maruell, louing a light wench\nBrag. I say sing\nBoy. Forbeare till this company be past.\nEnter Clowne, Constable, and Wench.\nConst. Sir, the Dukes pleasure, is that you keepe Costard\nsafe, and you must let him take no delight, nor no\npenance, but hee must fast three daies a weeke: for this\nDamsell, I must keepe her at the Parke, shee is alowd for\nthe Day-woman. Fare you well.\nEnter.\nBrag. I do betray my selfe with blushing: Maide\nMaid. Man\nBrag. I wil visit thee at the Lodge\nMaid. That's here by\nBrag. I know where it is situate\nMai. Lord how wise you are!\nBrag. I will tell thee wonders\nMa. With what face?\nBrag. I loue thee\nMai. So I heard you say\nBrag. And so farewell\nMai. Faire weather after you\nClo. Come Iaquenetta, away.\nExeunt.\nBrag. Villaine, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere\nthou be pardoned\nClo. Well sir, I hope when I doe it, I shall doe it on a\nfull stomacke\nBrag. Thou shalt be heauily punished\nClo. I am more bound to you then your fellowes, for\nthey are but lightly rewarded\nClo. Take away this villaine, shut him vp\nBoy. Come you transgressing slaue, away\nClow. Let mee not bee pent vp sir, I will fast being\nloose\nBoy. No sir, that were fast and loose: thou shalt to\nprison\nClow. Well, if euer I do see the merry dayes of desolation\nthat I haue seene, some shall see\nBoy. What shall some see?\nClow. Nay nothing, Master Moth, but what they\nlooke vpon. It is not for prisoners to be silent in their\nwords, and therefore I will say nothing: I thanke God, I\nhaue as little patience as another man, and therefore I\ncan be quiet.\nEnter.\nBrag. I doe affect the very ground (which is base)\nwhere her shooe (which is baser) guided by her foote\n(which is basest) doth tread. I shall be forsworn (which\nis a great argument of falshood) if I loue. And how can\nthat be true loue, which is falsly attempted? Loue is a familiar,\nLoue is a Diuell. There is no euill Angell but\nLoue, yet Sampson was so tempted, and he had an excellent\nstrength: Yet was Salomon so seduced, and hee had\na very good witte. Cupids Butshaft is too hard for Hercules\nClubbe, and therefore too much ods for a Spaniards\nRapier: The first and second cause will not serue\nmy turne: the Passado hee respects not, the Duello he\nregards not; his disgrace is to be called Boy, but his\nglorie is to subdue men. Adue Valour, rust Rapier, bee\nstill Drum, for your manager is in loue; yea hee loueth.\nAssist me some extemporall god of Rime, for I am sure I\nshall turne Sonnet. Deuise Wit, write Pen, for I am for\nwhole volumes in folio.\nEnter.\nFinis Actus Primus.\nActus Secunda.\nEnter the Princesse of France, with three attending Ladies, and\nthree\nLords\nBoyet. Now Madam summon vp your dearest spirits,\nConsider who the King your father sends:\nTo whom he sends, and what's his Embassie.\nYour selfe, held precious in the worlds esteeme,\nTo parlee with the sole inheritour\nOf all perfections that a man may owe,\nMatchlesse Nauarre, the plea of no lesse weight\nThen Aquitaine, a Dowrie for a Queene,\nBe now as prodigall of all deare grace,\nAs Nature was in making Graces deare,\nWhen she did starue the generall world beside,\nAnd prodigally gaue them all to you\nQueen. Good L[ord]. Boyet, my beauty though but mean,\nNeeds not the painted flourish of your praise:\nBeauty is bought by iudgement of the eye,\nNot vttred by base sale of chapmens tongues:\nI am lesse proud to heare you tell my worth,\nThen you much willing to be counted wise,\nIn spending your wit in the praise of mine.\nBut now to taske the tasker, good Boyet\nPrin. You are not ignorant all-telling fame\nDoth noyse abroad Nauar hath made a vow,\nTill painefull studie shall out-weare three yeares,\nNo woman may approach his silent Court:\nTherefore to's seemeth it a needfull course,\nBefore we enter his forbidden gates,\nTo know his pleasure, and in that behalfe\nBold of your worthinesse, we single you,\nAs our best mouing faire soliciter:\nTell him, the daughter of the King of France,\nOn serious businesse crauing quicke dispatch,\nImportunes personall conference with his grace.\nHaste, signifie so much while we attend,\nLike humble visag'd suters his high will\nBoy. Proud of imployment, willingly I goe.\nEnter.\nPrin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so:\nWho are the Votaries my Louing Lords, that are vow-fellowes\nwith this vertuous Duke?\nLor. Longauill is one\nPrinc. Know you the man?\n1 Lady. I know him Madame at a marriage feast,\nBetweene L[ord]. Perigort and the beautious heire\nOf Iaques Fauconbridge solemnized.\nIn Normandie saw I this Longauill,\nA man of soueraigne parts he is esteem'd:\nWell fitted in Arts, glorious in Armes:\nNothing becomes him ill that he would well.\nThe onely soyle of his faire vertues glosse,\nIf vertues glosse will staine with any soile,\nIs a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a Will:\nWhose edge hath power to cut whose will still wills,\nIt should none spare that come within his power\nPrin. Some merry mocking Lord belike, ist so?\nLad.1. They say so most, that most his humors know\nPrin. such short liu'd wits do wither as they grow.\nWho are the rest?\n2.Lad. The yong Dumaine, a well accomplisht youth,\nOf all that Vertue loue, for Vertue loued.\nMost power to doe most harme, least knowing ill:\nFor he hath wit to make an ill shape good,\nAnd shape to win grace though she had no wit.\nI saw him at the Duke Alansoes once,\nAnd much too little of that good I saw,\nIs my report to his great worthinesse\nRossa. Another of these Students at that time,\nWas there with him, as I haue heard a truth.\nBerowne they call him, but a merrier man,\nWithin the limit of becomming mirth,\nI neuer spent an houres talke withall.\nHis eye begets occasion for his wit,\nFor euery obiect that the one doth catch,\nThe other turnes to a mirth-mouing iest.\nWhich his faire tongue (conceits expositor)\nDeliuers in such apt and gracious words,\nThat aged eares play treuant at his tales,\nAnd yonger hearings are quite rauished.\nSo sweet and voluble is his discourse\nPrin. God blesse my Ladies, are they all in loue?\nThat euery one her owne hath garnished,\nWith such bedecking ornaments of praise\nMa. Heere comes Boyet.\nEnter Boyet.\nPrin. Now, what admittance Lord?\nBoyet. Nauar had notice of your faire approach;\nAnd he and his competitors in oath,\nWere all addrest to meete you gentle Lady\nBefore I came: Marrie thus much I haue learnt,\nHe rather meanes to lodge you in the field,\nLike one that comes heere to besiege his Court,\nThen seeke a dispensation for his oath:\nTo let you enter his vnpeopled house.\nEnter Nauar, Longauill, Dumaine, and Berowne.\nHeere comes Nauar\nNau. Faire Princesse, welcom to the Court of Nauar\nPrin. Faire I giue you backe againe, and welcome I\nhaue not yet: the roofe of this Court is too high to bee\nyours, and welcome to the wide fields, too base to be\nmine\nNau. You shall be welcome Madam to my Court\nPrin. I wil be welcome then, Conduct me thither\nNau. Heare me deare Lady, I haue sworne an oath\nPrin. Our Lady helpe my Lord, he'll be forsworne\nNau. Not for the world faire Madam, by my will\nPrin. Why, will shall breake it will, and nothing els\nNau. Your Ladiship is ignorant what it is\nPrin. Were my Lord so, his ignorance were wise,\nWhere now his knowledge must proue ignorance.\nI heare your grace hath sworne out House-keeping:\n'Tis deadly sinne to keepe that oath my Lord,\nAnd sinne to breake it:\nBut pardon me, I am too sodaine bold,\nTo teach a Teacher ill beseemeth me.\nVouchsafe to read the purpose of my comming,\nAnd sodainly resolue me in my suite\nNau. Madam, I will, if sodainly I may\nPrin. You will the sooner that I were away,\nFor you'll proue periur'd if you make me stay\nBerow. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?\nRosa. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?\nBer. I know you did\nRosa. How needlesse was it then to ask the question?\nBer. You must not be so quicke\nRosa. 'Tis long of you y spur me with such questions\nBer. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire\nRosa. Not till it leaue the Rider in the mire\nBer. What time a day?\nRosa. The howre that fooles should aske\nBer. Now faire befall your maske\nRosa. Faire fall the face it couers\nBer. And send you many louers\nRosa. Amen, so you be none\nBer. Nay then will I be gone\nKin. Madame, your father heere doth intimate,\nThe paiment of a hundred thousand Crownes,\nBeing but th' one halfe, of an intire summe,\nDisbursed by my father in his warres.\nBut say that he, or we, as neither haue\nReceiu'd that summe; yet there remaines vnpaid\nA hundred thousand more: in surety of the which,\nOne part of Aquitaine is bound to vs,\nAlthough not valued to the moneys worth.\nIf then the King your father will restore\nBut that one halfe which is vnsatisfied,\nWe will giue vp our right in Aquitaine,\nAnd hold faire friendship with his Maiestie:\nBut that it seemes he little purposeth,\nFor here he doth demand to haue repaie,\nAn hundred thousand Crownes, and not demands\nOne paiment of a hundred thousand Crownes,\nTo haue his title liue in Aquitaine.\nWhich we much rather had depart withall,\nAnd haue the money by our father lent,\nThen Aquitane, so guelded as it is.\nDeare Princesse, were not his requests so farre\nFrom reasons yeelding, your faire selfe should make\nA yeelding 'gainst some reason in my brest,\nAnd goe well satisfied to France againe\nPrin. You doe the King my Father too much wrong,\nAnd wrong the reputation of your name,\nIn so vnseeming to confesse receyt\nOf that which hath so faithfully beene paid\nKin. I doe protest I neuer heard of it,\nAnd if you proue it, Ile repay it backe,\nOr yeeld vp Aquitaine\nPrin. We arrest your word:\nBoyet, you can produce acquittances\nFor such a summe, from speciall Officers,\nOf Charles his Father\nKin. Satisfie me so\nBoyet. So please your Grace, the packet is not come\nWhere that and other specialties are bound,\nTo morrow you shall haue a sight of them\nKin. It shall suffice me; at which enterview,\nAll liberall reason would I yeeld vnto:\nMeane time, receiue such welcome at my hand,\nAs honour, without breach of Honour may\nMake tender of, to thy true worthinesse.\nYou may not come faire Princesse in my gates,\nBut heere without you shall be so receiu'd,\nAs you shall deeme your selfe lodg'd in my heart,\nThough so deni'd farther harbour in my house:\nYour owne good thoughts excuse me, and farewell,\nTo morrow we shall visit you againe\nPrin. Sweet health & faire desires consort your grace\nKin. Thy own wish wish I thee, in euery place.\nEnter.\nBoy. Lady, I will commend you to my owne heart\nLa.Ro. Pray you doe my commendations,\nI would be glad to see it\nBoy. I would you heard it grone\nLa.Ro. Is the soule sicke?\nBoy. Sicke at the heart\nLa.Ro. Alacke, let it bloud\nBoy. Would that doe it good?\nLa.Ro. My Phisicke saies I\nBoy. Will you prick't with your eye\nLa.Ro. No poynt, with my knife\nBoy. Now God saue thy life\nLa.Ro. And yours from long liuing\nBer. I cannot stay thanks-giuing.\nEnter.\nEnter Dumane.\nDum. Sir, I pray you a word: What Lady is that same?\nBoy. The heire of Alanson, Rosalin her name\nDum. A gallant Lady, Mounsier fare you well\nLong. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?\nBoy. A woman somtimes, if you saw her in the light\nLong. Perchance light in the light: I desire her name\nBoy. Shee hath but one for her selfe,\nTo desire that were a shame\nLong. Pray you sir, whose daughter?\nBoy. Her Mothers, I haue heard\nLong. Gods blessing a your beard\nBoy. Good sir be not offended,\nShee is an heyre of Faulconbridge\nLong. Nay, my choller is ended:\nShee is a most sweet Lady.\nExit. Long.\nBoy. Not vnlike sir, that may be.\nEnter Beroune.\nBer. What's her name in the cap\nBoy. Katherine by good hap\nBer. Is she wedded, or no\nBoy. To her will sir, or so,\nBer. You are welcome sir, adiew\nBoy. Fare well to me sir, and welcome to you.\nEnter.\nLa.Ma. That last is Beroune, the mery mad-cap Lord.\nNot a word with him, but a iest\nBoy. And euery iest but a word\nPri. It was well done of you to take him at his word\nBoy. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to boord\nLa.Ma. Two hot Sheepes marie:\nAnd wherefore not Ships?\nBoy. No Sheepe (sweet Lamb) vnlesse we feed on your lips\nLa. You Sheepe & I pasture: shall that finish the iest?\nBoy. So you grant pasture for me\nLa. Not so gentle beast.\nMy lips are no Common, though seuerall they be\nBo. Belonging to whom?\nLa. To my fortunes and me\nPrin. Good wits wil be iangling, but gentles agree.\nThis ciuill warre of wits were much better vsed\nOn Nauar and his bookemen, for heere 'tis abus'd\nBo. If my obseruation (which very seldome lies\nBy the hearts still rhetoricke, disclosed with eyes)\nDeceiue me not now, Nauar is infected\nPrin. With what?\nBo. With that which we Louers intitle affected\nPrin. Your reason\nBo. Why all his behauiours doe make their retire,\nTo the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire.\nHis hart like an Agot with your print impressed,\nProud with his forme, in his eie pride expressed.\nHis tongue all impatient to speake and not see,\nDid stumble with haste in his eie-sight to be,\nAll sences to that sence did make their repaire,\nTo feele onely looking on fairest of faire:\nMe thought all his sences were lockt in his eye,\nAs Iewels in Christall for some Prince to Buy.\nWho tendring their own worth from whence they were glast,\nDid point out to buy them along as you past.\nHis faces owne margent did coate such amazes,\nThat all eyes saw his eies inchanted with gazes.\nIle giue you Aquitaine, and all that is his,\nAnd you giue him for my sake, but one louing Kisse\nPrin. Come to our Pauillion, Boyet is disposde\nBro. But to speak that in words, which his eie hath disclos'd.\nI onelie haue made a mouth of his eie,\nBy adding a tongue, which I know will not lie\nLad.Ro. Thou art an old Loue-monger, and speakest\nskilfully\nLad.Ma. He is Cupids Grandfather, and learnes news\nof him\nLad.2. Then was Venus like her mother, for her father\nis but grim\nBoy. Do you heare my mad wenches?\nLa.1. No\nBoy. What then, do you see?\nLad.2. I, our way to be gone\nBoy. You are too hard for me.\nExeunt. omnes.\nActus Tertius.\nEnter Braggart and Boy.\nSong.\nBra. Warble childe, make passionate my sense of hearing\nBoy. Concolinel\nBrag. Sweete Ayer, go tendernesse of yeares: take\nthis Key, giue enlargement to the swaine, bring him festinatly\nhither: I must imploy him in a letter to my\nLoue\nBoy. Will you win your loue with a French braule?\nBra. How meanest thou, brauling in French?\nBoy. No my compleat master, but to Iigge off a tune\nat the tongues end, canarie to it with the feete, humour\nit with turning vp your eie: sigh a note and sing a note,\nsometime through the throate: if you swallowed loue\nwith singing, loue sometime through: nose as if you\nsnuft vp loue by smelling loue with your hat penthouselike\nore the shop of your eies, with your armes crost on\nyour thinbellie doublet, like a Rabbet on a spit, or your\nhands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting,\nand keepe not too long in one tune, but a snip and away:\nthese are complements, these are humours, these betraie\nnice wenches that would be betraied without these, and\nmake them men of note: do you note men that most are\naffected to these?\nBrag. How hast thou purchased this experience?\nBoy. By my penne of obseruation\nBrag. But O, but O\nBoy. The Hobbie-horse is forgot\nBra. Cal'st thou my loue Hobbi-horse\nBoy. No Master, the Hobbie-horse is but a Colt, and\nand your Loue perhaps, a Hacknie:\nbut haue you forgot your Loue?\nBrag. Almost I had\nBoy. Negligent student, learne her by heart\nBrag. By heart, and in heart Boy\nBoy. And out of heart Master: all those three I will\nproue\nBrag. What wilt thou proue?\nBoy. A man, if I liue (and this) by, in, and without, vpon\nthe instant: by heart you loue her, because your heart\ncannot come by her: in heart you loue her, because your\nheart is in loue with her: and out of heart you loue her,\nbeing out of heart that you cannot enioy her\nBrag. I am all these three\nBoy. And three times as much more, and yet nothing\nat all\nBrag. Fetch hither the Swaine, he must carrie mee a\nletter\nBoy. A message well simpathis'd, a Horse to be embassadour\nfor an Asse\nBrag. Ha, ha, What saiest thou?\nBoy. Marrie sir, you must send the Asse vpon the Horse\nfor he is verie slow gated: but I goe\nBrag. The way is but short, away\nBoy. As swift as Lead sir\nBrag. Thy meaning prettie ingenious, is not Lead a\nmettall heauie, dull, and slow?\nBoy. Minnime honest Master, or rather Master no\nBrag. I say Lead is slow\nBoy. You are too swift sir to say so.\nIs that Lead slow which is fir'd from a Gunne?\nBrag. Sweete smoke of Rhetorike,\nHe reputes me a Cannon, and the Bullet that's he:\nI shoote thee at the Swaine\nBoy. Thump then, and I flee\nBra. A most acute Iuuenall, voluble and free of grace,\nBy thy fauour sweet Welkin, I must sigh in thy face.\nMost rude melancholie, Valour giues thee place.\nMy Herald is return'd.\nEnter Page and Clowne.\nPag. A wonder Master, here's a Costard broken in a\nshin\nAr. Some enigma, some riddle, come, thy Lenuoy\nbegin\nClo. No egma, no riddle, no lenuoy, no salue, in thee\nmale sir. Or sir, Plantan, a plaine Plantan: no lenuoy, no\nlenuoy, no Salue sir, but a Plantan\nAr. By vertue, thou inforcest laughter, thy sillie\nthought, my spleene, the heauing of my lunges prouokes\nme to rediculous smyling: O pardon me my stars, doth\nthe inconsiderate take salue for lenuoy, and the word lenuoy\nfor a salue?\nPag. Doe the wise thinke them other, is not lenuoy a\nsalue?\nAr. No Page, it is an epilogue or discourse to make plaine,\nSome obscure precedence that hath tofore bin faine.\nNow will I begin your morrall, and do you follow with\nmy lenuoy.\nThe Foxe, the Ape, and the Humble-Bee,\nWere still at oddes, being but three\nArm. Vntill the Goose came out of doore,\nStaying the oddes by adding foure\nPag. A good Lenuoy, ending in the Goose: would you\ndesire more?\nClo. The Boy hath sold him a bargaine, a Goose, that's flat.\nSir, your penny-worth is good, and your Goose be fat.\nTo sell a bargaine well is as cunning as fast and loose:\nLet me see a fat Lenuoy, I that's a fat Goose\nAr. Come hither, come hither:\nHow did this argument begin?\nBoy. By saying that a Costard was broken in a shin.\nThen cal'd you for the Lenuoy\nClow. True, and I for a Plantan:\nThus came your argument in:\nThen the Boyes fat Lenuoy, the Goose that you bought,\nAnd he ended the market\nAr. But tell me: How was there a Costard broken in\na shin?\nPag. I will tell you sencibly\nClow. Thou hast no feeling of it Moth,\nI will speake that Lenuoy.\nI Costard running out, that was safely within,\nFell ouer the threshold, and broke my shin\nArm. We will talke no more of this matter\nClow. Till there be more matter in the shin\nArm. Sirra Costard, I will infranchise thee\nClow. O, marrie me to one Francis, I smell some Lenuoy,\nsome Goose in this\nArm. By my sweete soule, I meane, setting thee at libertie.\nEnfreedoming thy person: thou wert emured,\nrestrained, captiuated, bound\nClow. True, true, and now you will be my purgation,\nand let me loose\nArm. I giue thee thy libertie, set thee from durance,\nand in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:\nBeare this significant to the countrey Maide Iaquenetta:\nthere is remuneration, for the best ward of mine honours\nis rewarding my dependants. Moth, follow\nPag. Like the sequell I.\nSigneur Costard adew.\nEnter.\nClow. My sweete ounce of mans flesh, my inconie\nIew: Now will I looke to his remuneration.\nRemuneration, O, that's the Latine word for three-farthings:\nThree-farthings remuneration, What's the price\nof this yncle? i.d. no, Ile giue you a remuneration: Why?\nIt carries it remuneration: Why? It is a fairer name then\na French-Crowne. I will neuer buy and sell out of this\nword.\nEnter Berowne.\nBer. O my good knaue Costard, exceedingly well met\nClow. Pray you sir, How much Carnation Ribbon\nmay a man buy for a remuneration?\nBer. What is a remuneration?\nCost. Marrie sir, halfe pennie farthing\nBer. O, Why then threefarthings worth of Silke\nCost. I thanke your worship, God be wy you\nBer. O stay slaue, I must employ thee:\nAs thou wilt win my fauour, good my knaue,\nDoe one thing for me that I shall intreate\nClow. When would you haue it done sir?\nBer. O this after-noone\nClo. Well, I will doe it sir: Fare you well\nBer. O thou knowest not what it is\nClo. I shall know sir, when I haue done it\nBer. Why villaine thou must know first\nClo. I wil come to your worship to morrow morning\nBer. It must be done this after-noone,\nHarke slaue, it is but this:\nThe Princesse comes to hunt here in the Parke,\nAnd in her traine there is a gentle Ladie:\nWhen tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,\nAnd Rosaline they call her, aske for her:\nAnd to her white hand see thou do commend\nThis seal'd-vp counsaile. Ther's thy guerdon: goe\nClo. Gardon, O sweete gardon, better then remuneration,\na leuenpence-farthing better: most sweete gardon.\nI will doe it sir in print: gardon, remuneration.\nEnter.\nBer. O, and I forsooth in loue,\nI that haue beene loues whip?\nA verie Beadle to a humerous sigh: A Criticke,\nNay, a night-watch Constable.\nA domineering pedant ore the Boy,\nThen whom no mortall so magnificent,\nThis wimpled, whyning, purblinde waiward Boy,\nThis signior Iunios gyant dwarfe, don Cupid,\nRegent of Loue-rimes, Lord of folded armes,\nTh' annointed soueraigne of sighes and groanes:\nLiedge of all loyterers and malecontents:\nDread Prince of Placcats, King of Codpeeces.\nSole Emperator and great generall\nOf trotting Parrators (O my little heart.)\nAnd I to be a Corporall of his field,\nAnd weare his colours like a Tumblers hoope.\nWhat? I loue, I sue, I seeke a wife,\nA woman that is like a Germane Cloake,\nStill a repairing: euer out of frame,\nAnd neuer going a right, being a Watch:\nBut being watcht, that it may still goe right.\nNay, to be periurde, which is worst of all:\nAnd among three, to loue the worst of all,\nA whitly wanton, with a veluet brow.\nWith two pitch bals stucke in her face for eyes.\nI, and by heauen, one that will doe the deede,\nThough Argus were her Eunuch and her garde.\nAnd I to sigh for her, to watch for her,\nTo pray for her, go to: it is a plague\nThat Cupid will impose for my neglect,\nOf his almighty dreadfull little might.\nWell, I will loue, write, sigh, pray, shue, grone,\nSome men must loue my Lady, and some Ione.\nActus Quartus.\nEnter the Princesse, a Forrester, her Ladies, and her Lords.\nQu. Was that the King that spurd his horse so hard,\nAgainst the steepe vprising of the hill?\nBoy. I know not, but I thinke it was not he\nQu. Who ere a was, a shew'd a mounting minde:\nWell Lords, to day we shall haue our dispatch,\nOn Saterday we will returne to France.\nThen Forrester my friend, Where is the Bush\nThat we must stand and play the murtherer in?\nFor. Hereby vpon the edge of yonder Coppice,\nA stand where you may make the fairest shoote\nQu. I thanke my beautie, I am faire that shoote,\nAnd thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoote\nFor. Pardon me Madam, for I meant not so\nQu. What, what? First praise me, & then again say no.\nO short liu'd pride. Not faire? alacke for woe\nFor. Yes Madam faire\nQu. Nay, neuer paint me now,\nWhere faire is not, praise cannot mend the brow.\nHere (good my glasse) take this for telling true:\nFaire paiment for foule words, is more then due\nFor. Nothing but faire is that which you inherit\nQu. See, see, my beautie will be sau'd by merit.\nO heresie in faire, fit for these dayes,\nA giuing hand, though foule, shall haue faire praise.\nBut come, the Bow: Now Mercie goes to kill,\nAnd shooting well, is then accounted ill:\nThus will I saue my credit in the shoote,\nNot wounding, pittie would not let me do't:\nIf wounding, then it was to shew my skill,\nThat more for praise, then purpose meant to kill.\nAnd out of question, so it is sometimes:\nGlory growes guiltie of detested crimes,\nWhen for Fames sake, for praise an outward part,\nWe bend to that, the working of the hart.\nAs I for praise alone now seeke to spill\nThe poore Deeres blood, that my heart meanes no ill\nBoy. Do not curst wiues hold that selfe-soueraigntie\nOnely for praise sake, when they striue to be\nLords ore their Lords?\nQu. Onely for praise, and praise we may afford,\nTo any Lady that subdewes a Lord.\nEnter Clowne.\nBoy. Here comes a member of the common-wealth\nClo. God dig-you-den all, pray you which is the head\nLady?\nQu. Thou shalt know her fellow, by the rest that haue\nno heads\nClo. Which is the greatest Lady, the highest?\nQu. The thickest, and the tallest\nClo. The thickest, & the tallest: it is so, truth is truth.\nAnd your waste Mistris, were as slender as my wit,\nOne a these Maides girdles for your waste should be fit.\nAre not you the chiefe woma[n]? You are the thickest here?\nQu. What's your will sir? What's your will?\nClo. I haue a Letter from Monsier Berowne,\nTo one Lady Rosaline\nQu. O thy letter, thy letter: He's a good friend of mine.\nStand a side good bearer.\nBoyet, you can carue,\nBreake vp this Capon\nBoyet. I am bound to serue.\nThis Letter is mistooke: it importeth none here:\nIt is writ to Iaquenetta\nQu. We will read it, I sweare.\nBreake the necke of the Waxe, and euery one giue eare\nBoyet reades. By heauen, that thou art faire, is most infallible:\ntrue\nthat thou art beauteous, truth it selfe that thou art\nlouely: more fairer then faire, beautifull then beautious,\ntruer then truth it selfe: haue comiseration on thy heroicall\nVassall. The magnanimous and most illustrate King\nCophetua set eie vpon the pernicious and indubitate Begger\nZenelophon: and he it was that might rightly say, Veni,\nvidi, vici: Which to annothanize in the vulgar, O\nbase and obscure vulgar; videliset, He came, See, and ouercame:\nhee came one; see, two; ouercame three:\nWho came? the King. Why did he come? to see. Why\ndid he see? to ouercome. To whom came he? to the\nBegger. What saw he? the Begger. Who ouercame\nhe? the Begger. The conclusion is victorie: On whose\nside? the King: the captiue is inricht: On whose side?\nthe Beggers. The catastrophe is a Nuptiall: on whose\nside? the Kings: no, on both in one, or one in both. I am\nthe King (for so stands the comparison) thou the Begger,\nfor so witnesseth thy lowlinesse. Shall I command\nthy loue? I may. Shall I enforce thy loue? I could.\nShall I entreate thy loue? I will. What, shalt thou exchange\nfor ragges, roabes: for tittles titles, for thy selfe\nmee. Thus expecting thy reply, I prophane my lips on\nthy foote, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy\neuerie part.\nThine in the dearest designe of industrie,\nDon Adriana de Armatho.\nThus dost thou heare the Nemean Lion roare,\nGainst thee thou Lambe, that standest as his pray:\nSubmissiue fall his princely feete before,\nAnd he from forrage will incline to play.\nBut if thou striue (poore soule) what art thou then?\nFoode for his rage, repasture for his den\nQu. What plume of feathers is hee that indited this\nLetter? What veine? What Wethercocke? Did you\neuer heare better?\nBoy. I am much deceiued, but I remember the stile\nQu. Else your memorie is bad, going ore it erewhile\nBoy. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court\nA Phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport\nTo the Prince and his Booke-mates\nQu. Thou fellow, a word.\nWho gaue thee this Letter?\nClow. I told you, my Lord\nQu. To whom should'st thou giue it?\nClo. From my Lord to my Lady\nQu. From which Lord, to which Lady?\nClo. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,\nTo a Lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline\nQu. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come Lords away.\nHere sweete, put vp this, 'twill be thine another day.\nExeunt.\nBoy. Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?\nRosa. Shall I teach you to know\nBoy. I my continent of beautie\nRosa. Why she that beares the Bow. Finely put off\nBoy. My Lady goes to kill hornes, but if thou marrie,\nHang me by the necke, if hornes that yeare miscarrie.\nFinely put on\nRosa. Well then, I am the shooter\nBoy. And who is your Deare?\nRosa. If we choose by the hornes, your selfe come not\nneare. Finely put on indeede\nMaria. You still wrangle with her Boyet, and shee\nstrikes at the brow\nBoyet. But she her selfe is hit lower:\nHaue I hit her now\nRosa. Shall I come vpon thee with an old saying, that\nwas a man when King Pippin of France was a little boy, as\ntouching the hit it\nBoyet. So I may answere thee with one as old that\nwas a woman when Queene Guinouer of Brittaine was a\nlittle wench, as touching the hit it\nRosa. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,\nThou canst not hit it my good man\nBoy. I cannot, cannot, cannot:\nAnd I cannot, another can.\nEnter.\nClo. By my troth most pleasant, how both did fit it\nMar. A marke marueilous well shot, for they both\ndid hit\nBoy. A mark, O marke but that marke: a marke saies\nmy Lady.\nLet the mark haue a pricke in't, to meat at, if it may be\nMar. Wide a'th bow hand, yfaith your hand is out\nClo. Indeede a' must shoote nearer, or heele ne're hit\nthe clout\nBoy. And if my hand be out, then belike your hand\nis in\nClo. Then will shee get the vpshoot by cleauing the\nis in\nMa. Come, come, you talke greasely, your lips grow\nfoule\nClo. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir challenge her\nto boule\nBoy. I feare too much rubbing: good night my good\nOule\nClo. By my soule a Swaine, a most simple Clowne.\nLord, Lord, how the Ladies and I haue put him downe.\nO my troth most sweete iests, most inconie vulgar wit,\nWhen it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were,\nso fit.\nArmathor ath to the side, O a most dainty man.\nTo see him walke before a Lady, and to beare her Fan.\nTo see him kisse his hand, and how most sweetly a will\nsweare:\nAnd his Page atother side, that handfull of wit,\nAh heauens, it is most patheticall nit.\nSowla, sowla.\nExeunt. Shoote within.\nEnter Dull, Holofernes, the Pedant and Nathaniel.\nNat. Very reuerent sport truely, and done in the testimony\nof a good conscience\nPed. The Deare was (as you know) sanguis in blood,\nripe as a Pomwater who now hangeth like a Iewell in\nthe eare of Celo the skie; the welken the heauen, and anon\nfalleth like a Crab on the face of Terra, the soyle, the\nland, the earth\nCurat.Nath. Truely M[aster]. Holofernes, the epythithes are\nsweetly varied like a scholler at the least: but sir I assure\nye, it was a Bucke of the first head\nHol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo\nDul. 'Twas not a haud credo, 'twas a Pricket\nHol. Most barbarous intimation: yet a kinde of insinuation,\nas it were in via, in way of explication facere: as\nit were replication, or rather ostentare, to show as it were\nhis inclination after his vndressed, vnpolished, vneducated,\nvnpruned, vntrained, or rather vnlettered, or ratherest\nvnconfirmed fashion, to insert againe my haud credo\nfor a Deare\nDul. I said the Deare was not a haud credo, 'twas a\nPricket\nHol. Twice sod simplicitie, bis coctus, O thou monster\nIgnorance, how deformed doost thou looke\nNath. Sir hee hath neuer fed of the dainties that are\nbred in a booke.\nHe hath not eate paper as it were:\nHe hath not drunke inke.\nHis intellect is not replenished, hee is onely an animall,\nonely sensible in the duller parts: and such barren plants\nare set before vs, that we thankfull should be: which we\ntaste and feeling, are for those parts that doe fructifie in\nvs more then he.\nFor as it would ill become me to be vaine, indiscreet, or\na foole;\nSo were there a patch set on Learning, to see him in a\nSchoole.\nBut omne bene say I, being of an old Fathers minde,\nMany can brooke the weather, that loue not the winde\nDul. You two are book-men: Can you tell by your\nwit, What was a month old at Cains birth, that's not fiue\nweekes old as yet?\nHol. Dictisima goodman Dull, dictisima goodman\nDull\nDul. What is dictima?\nNath. A title to Phebe, to Luna, to the Moone\nHol. The Moone was a month old when Adam was\nno more.\nAnd wrought not to fiue-weekes when he came to fiuescore.\nTh' allusion holds in the Exchange\nDul. 'Tis true indeede, the Collusion holds in the\nExchange\nHol. God comfort thy capacity, I say th' allusion holds\nin the Exchange\nDul. And I say the polusion holds in the Exchange:\nfor the Moone is neuer but a month old: and I say beside\nthat, 'twas a Pricket that the Princesse kill'd\nHol. Sir Nathaniel, will you heare an extemporall\nEpytaph on the death of the Deare, and to humour\nthe ignorant call'd the Deare, the Princesse kill'd a\nPricket\nNath. Perge, good M[aster]. Holofernes, perge, so it shall\nplease you to abrogate scurilitie\nHol. I will something affect a letter, for it argues\nfacilitie.\nThe prayfull Princesse pearst and prickt\na prettie pleasing Pricket,\nSome say a Sore, but not a sore,\ntill now made sore with shooting.\nThe Dogges did yell, put ell to Sore,\nthen Sorrell iumps from thicket:\nOr Pricket-sore, or else Sorell,\nthe people fall a hooting.\nIf Sore be sore, than ell to Sore,\nmakes fiftie sores O sorell:\nOf one sore I an hundred make\nby adding but one more L\nNath. A rare talent\nDul. If a talent be a claw, looke how he clawes him\nwith a talent\nNath. This is a gift that I haue simple: simple, a foolish\nextrauagant spirit, full of formes, figures, shapes, obiects,\nIdeas, apprehensions, motions, reuolutions. These\nare begot in the ventricle of memorie, nourisht in the\nwombe of primater, and deliuered vpon the mellowing\nof occasion: but the gift is good in those in whom it is\nacute, and I am thankfull for it\nHol. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my\nparishioners, for their Sonnes are well tutor'd by you,\nand their Daughters profit very greatly vnder you: you\nare a good member of the common-wealth\nNath. Me hercle, If their Sonnes be ingenuous, they\nshall want no instruction: If their Daughters be capable,\nI will put it to them. But Vir sapis qui pauca loquitur, a\nsoule Feminine saluteth vs.\nEnter Iaquenetta and the Clowne.\nIaqu. God giue you good morrow M[aster]. Person\nNath. Master Person, quasi Person? And if one should\nbe perst, Which is the one?\nClo. Marry M[aster]. Schoolemaster, hee that is likest to a\nhogshead\nNath. Of persing a Hogshead, a good luster of conceit\nin a turph of Earth, Fire enough for a Flint, Pearle\nenough for a Swine: 'tis prettie, it is well\nIaqu. Good Master Parson be so good as reade mee\nthis Letter, it was giuen mee by Costard, and sent mee\nfrom Don Armatho: I beseech you read it\nNath. Facile precor gellida, quando pecas omnia sub vmbra\nruminat, and so forth. Ah good old Mantuan, I\nmay speake of thee as the traueiler doth of Venice, vemchie,\nvencha, que non te vnde, que non te perreche. Old Mantuan,\nold Mantuan. Who vnderstandeth thee not, vt re\nsol la mi fa: Vnder pardon sir, What are the contents? or\nrather as Horrace sayes in his, What my soule verses\nHol. I sir, and very learned\nNath. Let me heare a staffe, a stanze, a verse, Lege domine.\nIf Loue make me forsworne, how shall I sweare to loue?\nAh neuer faith could hold, if not to beautie vowed.\nThough to my selfe forsworn, to thee Ile faithfull proue.\nThose thoughts to mee were Okes, to thee like Osiers\nbowed.\nStudie his byas leaues, and makes his booke thine eyes.\nWhere all those pleasures liue, that Art would comprehend.\nIf knowledge be the marke, to know thee shall suffice.\nWell learned is that tongue, that well can thee co[m]mend.\nAll ignorant that soule, that sees thee without wonder.\nWhich is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire;\nThy eye Ioues lightning beares, thy voyce his dreadfull\nthunder.\nWhich not to anger bent, is musique, and sweete fire.\nCelestiall as thou art, Oh pardon loue this wrong,\nThat sings heauens praise, with such an earthly tongue\nPed. You finde not the apostraphas, and so misse the\naccent. Let me superuise the cangenet\nNath. Here are onely numbers ratified, but for the\nelegancy, facility, & golden cadence of poesie caret: Ouiddius\nNaso was the man. And why in deed Naso, but\nfor smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy? the\nierkes of inuention imitarie is nothing: So doth the\nHound his master, the Ape his keeper, the tyred Horse\nhis rider: But Damosella virgin, Was this directed to\nyou?\nIaq. I sir from one mounsier Berowne, one of the\nstrange Queenes Lords\nNath. I will ouerglance the superscript.\nTo the snow-white hand of the most beautious Lady Rosaline.\nI will looke againe on the intellect of the Letter, for\nthe nomination of the partie written to the person written\nvnto.\nYour Ladiships in all desired imployment, Berowne\nPed. Sir Holofernes, this Berowne is one of the Votaries\nwith the King, and here he hath framed a Letter to a sequent\nof the stranger Queens: which accidentally, or\nby the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and\ngoe my sweete, deliuer this Paper into the hand of the\nKing, it may concerne much: stay not thy complement, I\nforgiue thy duetie, adue\nMaid. Good Costard go with me:\nSir God saue your life\nCost. Haue with thee my girle.\nEnter.\nHol. Sir you haue done this in the feare of God very\nreligiously: and as a certaine Father saith\nPed. Sir tell not me of the Father, I do feare colourable\ncolours. But to returne to the Verses, Did they please\nyou sir Nathaniel?\nNath. Marueilous well for the pen\nPeda. I do dine to day at the fathers of a certaine Pupill\nof mine, where if (being repast) it shall please you to\ngratifie the table with a Grace, I will on my priuiledge I\nhaue with the parents of the foresaid Childe or Pupill,\nvndertake your bien venuto, where I will proue those\nVerses to be very vnlearned, neither sauouring of\nPoetrie, Wit, nor Inuention. I beseech your Societie\nNat. And thanke you to: for societie (saith the text)\nis the happinesse of life\nPeda. And certes the text most infallibly concludes it.\nSir I do inuite you too, you shall not say me nay: pauca\nverba.\nAway, the gentles are at their game, and we will to our\nrecreation.\nExeunt.\nEnter Berowne with a Paper in his hand, alone.\nBero. The King he is hunting the Deare,\nI am coursing my selfe.\nThey haue pitcht a Toyle, I am toyling in a pytch,\npitch that defiles; defile, a foule word: Well, set thee\ndowne sorrow; for so they say the foole said, and so say\nI, and I the foole: Well proued wit. By the Lord this\nLoue is as mad as Aiax, it kils sheepe, it kils mee, I a\nsheepe: Well proued againe a my side. I will not loue;\nif I do hang me: yfaith I will not. O but her eye: by\nthis light, but for her eye, I would not loue her; yes, for\nher two eyes. Well, I doe nothing in the world but lye,\nand lye in my throate. By heauen I doe loue, and it hath\ntaught mee to Rime, and to be mallicholie: and here is\npart of my Rime, and heere my mallicholie. Well, she\nhath one a'my Sonnets already, the Clowne bore it, the\nFoole sent it, and the Lady hath it: sweet Clowne, sweeter\nFoole, sweetest Lady. By the world, I would not care\na pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one with a\npaper, God giue him grace to grone.\nHe stands aside. The King entreth.\nKin. Ay mee!\nBer. Shot by heauen: proceede sweet Cupid, thou hast\nthumpt him with thy Birdbolt vnder the left pap: in faith\nsecrets\nKing. So sweete a kisse the golden Sunne giues not,\nTo those fresh morning drops vpon the Rose,\nAs thy eye beames, when their fresh rayse haue smot.\nThe night of dew that on my cheekes downe flowes.\nNor shines the siluer Moone one halfe so bright,\nThrough the transparent bosome of the deepe,\nAs doth thy face through teares of mine giue light:\nThou shin'st in euery teare that I doe weepe,\nNo drop, but as a Coach doth carry thee:\nSo ridest thou triumphing in my woe.\nDo but behold the teares that swell in me,\nAnd they thy glory through my griefe will show:\nBut doe not loue thy selfe, then thou wilt keepe\nMy teares for glasses, and still make me weepe.\nO Queene of Queenes, how farre dost thou excell,\nNo thought can thinke, nor tongue of mortall tell.\nHow shall she know my griefes? Ile drop the paper.\nSweete leaues shade folly. Who is he comes heere?\nEnter Longauile. The King steps aside.\nWhat Longauill, and reading: listen eare\nBer. Now in thy likenesse, one more foole appeare\nLong. Ay me, I am forsworne\nBer. Why he comes in like a periure, wearing papers\nLong. In loue I hope, sweet fellowship in shame\nBer. One drunkard loues another of the name\nLon. Am I the first y haue been periur'd so?\nBer. I could put thee in comfort, not by two that I know,\nThou makest the triumphery, the corner cap of societie,\nThe shape of Loues Tiburne, that hangs vp simplicitie\nLon. I feare these stubborn lines lack power to moue.\nO sweet Maria, Empresse of my Loue,\nThese numbers will I teare, and write in prose\nBer. O Rimes are gards on wanton Cupids hose,\nDisfigure not his Shop\nLon. This same shall goe.\nHe reades the Sonnet.\nDid not the heauenly Rhetoricke of thine eye,\n'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,\nPerswade my heart to this false periurie?\nVowes for thee broke deserue not punishment.\nA Woman I forswore, but I will proue,\nThou being a Goddesse, I forswore not thee.\nMy Vow was earthly, thou a heauenly Loue.\nThy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.\nVowes are but breath, and breath a vapour is.\nThen thou faire Sun, which on my earth doest shine,\nExhalest this vapor-vow, in thee it is:\nIf broken then, it is no fault of mine:\nIf by me broke, What foole is not so wise,\nTo loose an oath, to win a Paradise?\nBer. This is the liuer veine, which makes flesh a deity.\nA greene Goose, a Goddesse, pure pure Idolatry.\nGod amend vs, God amend, we are much out o'th' way.\nEnter Dumaine.\nLon. By whom shall I send this (company?) Stay\nBero. All hid, all hid, an old infant play,\nLike a demie God, here sit I in the skie,\nAnd wretched fooles secrets heedfully ore-eye.\nMore Sacks to the myll. O heauens I haue my wish,\nDumaine transform'd, foure Woodcocks in a dish\nDum. O most diuine Kate\nBero. O most prophane coxcombe\nDum. By heauen the wonder of a mortall eye\nBero. By earth she is not, corporall, there you lye\nDum. Her Amber haires for foule hath amber coted\nBer. An Amber coloured Rauen was well noted\nDum. As vpright as the Cedar\nBer. Stoope I say, her shoulder is with-child\nDum. As faire as day\nBer. I as some daies, but then no sunne must shine\nDum. O that I had my wish?\nLon. And I had mine\nKin. And mine too good Lord\nBer. Amen, so I had mine: Is not that a good word?\nDum. I would forget her, but a Feuer she\nRaignes in my bloud, and will remembred be\nBer. A Feuer in your bloud, why then incision\nWould let her out in Sawcers, sweet misprision\nDum. Once more Ile read the Ode that I haue writ\nBer. Once more Ile marke how Loue can varry Wit.\nDumane reades his Sonnet.\nOn a day, alack the day:\nLoue, whose Month is euery May,\nSpied a blossome passing faire,\nPlaying in the wanton ayre:\nThrough the Veluet, leaues the winde,\nAll vnseene, can passage finde.\nThat the Louer sicke to death,\nWish himselfe the heauens breath.\nAyre (quoth he) thy cheekes may blowe,\nAyre, would I might triumph so.\nBut alacke my hand is sworne,\nNere to plucke thee from thy throne:\nVow alacke for youth vnmeete,\nyouth so apt to plucke a sweet.\nDoe not call it sinne in me,\nThat I am forsworne for thee.\nThou for whom Ioue would sweare,\nIuno but an aethiop were,\nAnd denie himselfe for Ioue.\nTurning mortall for thy Loue.\nThis will I send, and something else more plaine.\nThat shall expresse my true-loues fasting paine.\nO would the King, Berowne and Longauill,\nWere Louers too, ill to example ill,\nWould from my forehead wipe a periur'd note:\nFor none offend, where all alike doe dote\nLon. Dumaine, thy Loue is farre from charitie,\nThat in Loues griefe desir'st societie:\nYou may looke pale, but I should blush I know,\nTo be ore-heard, and taken napping so\nKin. Come sir, you blush: as his, your case is such,\nYou chide at him, offending twice as much.\nYou doe not loue Maria? Longauile,\nDid neuer Sonnet for her sake compile;\nNor neuer lay his wreathed armes athwart\nHis louing bosome, to keepe downe his heart.\nI haue beene closely shrowded in this bush,\nAnd markt you both, and for you both did blush.\nI heard your guilty Rimes, obseru'd your fashion:\nSaw sighes reeke from you, noted well your passion.\nAye me, sayes one! O Ioue, the other cries!\nOn her haires were Gold, Christall the others eyes.\nYou would for Paradise breake Faith and troth,\nAnd Ioue for your Loue would infringe an oath.\nWhat will Berowne say when that he shall heare\nFaith infringed, which such zeale did sweare.\nHow will he scorne? how will he spend his wit?\nHow will he triumph, leape, and laugh at it?\nFor all the wealth that euer I did see,\nI would not haue him know so much by me\nBero. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisie.\nAh good my Liedge, I pray thee pardon me.\nGood heart, What grace hast thou thus to reproue\nThese wormes for louing, that art most in loue?\nYour eyes doe make no couches in your teares.\nThere is no certaine Princesse that appeares.\nYou'll not be periur'd, 'tis a hatefull thing:\nTush, none but Minstrels like of Sonnetting.\nBut are you not asham'd? nay, are you not\nAll three of you, to be thus much ore'shot?\nYou found his Moth, the King your Moth did see:\nBut I a Beame doe finde in each of three.\nO what a Scene of fool'ry haue I seene.\nOf sighes, of grones, of sorrow, and of teene:\nO me, with what strict patience haue I sat,\nTo see a King transformed to a Gnat?\nTo see great Hercules whipping a Gigge,\nAnd profound Salomon tuning a Iygge?\nAnd Nestor play at push-pin with the boyes,\nAnd Critticke Tymon laugh at idle toyes.\nWhere lies thy griefe? O tell me good Dumaine;\nAnd gentle Longauill, where lies thy paine?\nAnd where my Liedges? all about the brest:\nA Candle hoa!\nKin. Too bitter is thy iest.\nAre wee betrayed thus to thy ouer-view?\nBer. Not you by me, but I betrayed to you.\nI that am honest, I that hold it sinne\nTo breake the vow I am ingaged in.\nI am betrayed by keeping company\nWith men, like men of inconstancie.\nWhen shall you see me write a thing in rime?\nOr grone for Ioane? or spend a minutes time,\nIn pruning mee, when shall you heare that I will praise a\nhand, a foot, a face, an eye: a gate, a state, a brow, a brest,\na waste, a legge, a limme\nKin. Soft, Whither away so fast?\nA true man, or a theefe, that gallops so\nBer. I post from Loue, good Louer let me go.\nEnter Iaquenetta and Clowne.\nIaqu. God blesse the King\nKin. What Present hast thou there?\nClo. Some certaine treason\nKin. What makes treason heere?\nClo. Nay it makes nothing sir\nKin. If it marre nothing neither,\nThe treason and you goe in peace away together\nIaqu. I beseech your Grace let this Letter be read,\nOur person mis-doubts it: it was treason he said\nKin. Berowne, read it ouer.\nHe reades the Letter.\nKin. Where hadst thou it?\nIaqu. Of Costard\nKing. Where hadst thou it?\nCost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio\nKin. How now, what is in you? why dost thou tear it?\nBer. A toy my Liedge, a toy: your grace needes not\nfeare it\nLong. It did moue him to passion, and therefore let's\nheare it\nDum. It is Berowns writing, and heere is his name\nBer. Ah you whoreson loggerhead, you were borne\nto doe me shame.\nGuilty my Lord, guilty: I confesse, I confesse\nKin. What?\nBer. That you three fooles, lackt mee foole, to make\nvp the messe.\nHe, he, and you: and you my Liedge, and I,\nAre picke-purses in Loue, and we deserue to die.\nO dismisse this audience, and I shall tell you more\nDum. Now the number is euen\nBerow. True true, we are fowre: will these Turtles\nbe gone?\nKin. Hence sirs, away\nClo. Walk aside the true folke, & let the traytors stay\nBer. Sweet Lords, sweet Louers, O let vs imbrace,\nAs true we are as flesh and bloud can be,\nThe Sea will ebbe and flow, heauen will shew his face:\nYoung bloud doth not obey an old decree.\nWe cannot crosse the cause why we are borne:\nTherefore of all hands must we be forsworne\nKing. What, did these rent lines shew some loue of\nthine?\nBer. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heauenly Rosaline,\nThat (like a rude and sauage man of Inde.)\nAt the first opening of the gorgeous East,\nBowes not his vassall head, and strooken blinde,\nKisses the base ground with obedient breast?\nWhat peremptory Eagle-sighted eye\nDares looke vpon the heauen of her brow,\nThat is not blinded by her maiestie?\nKin. What zeale, what furie, hath inspir'd thee now?\nMy Loue (her Mistres) is a gracious Moone,\nShee (an attending Starre) scarce seene a light\nBer. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne.\nO, but for my Loue, day would turne to night,\nOf all complexions the cul'd soueraignty,\nDoe meet as at a faire in her faire cheeke,\nWhere seuerall Worthies make one dignity,\nWhere nothing wants, that want it selfe doth seeke.\nLend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,\nFie painted Rethoricke, O she needs it not,\nTo things of sale, a sellers praise belongs:\nShe passes prayse, then prayse too short doth blot.\nA withered Hermite, fiuescore winters worne,\nMight shake off fiftie, looking in her eye:\nBeauty doth varnish Age, as if new borne,\nAnd giues the Crutch the Cradles infancie.\nO 'tis the Sunne that maketh all things shine\nKing. By heauen, thy Loue is blacke as Ebonie\nBerow. Is Ebonie like her? O word diuine?\nA wife of such wood were felicite.\nO who can giue an oth? Where is a booke?\nThat I may sweare Beauty doth beauty lacke,\nIf that she learne not of her eye to looke:\nNo face is faire that is not full so blacke\nKin. O paradoxe, Blacke is the badge of hell,\nThe hue of dungeons, and the Schoole of night:\nAnd beauties crest becomes the heauens well\nBer. Diuels soonest tempt resembling spirits of light.\nO if in blacke my Ladies browes be deckt,\nIt mournes, that painting vsurping haire\nShould rauish doters with a false aspect:\nAnd therfore is she borne to make blacke, faire.\nHer fauour turnes the fashion of the dayes,\nFor natiue bloud is counted painting now:\nAnd therefore red that would auoyd dispraise,\nPaints it selfe blacke, to imitate her brow\nDum. To look like her are Chimny-sweepers blacke\nLon. And since her time, are Colliers counted bright\nKing. And Aethiops of their sweet complexion crake\nDum. Dark needs no Candles now, for dark is light\nBer. Your mistresses dare neuer come in raine,\nFor feare their colours should be washt away\nKin. 'Twere good yours did: for sir to tell you plaine,\nIle finde a fairer face not washt to day\nBer. Ile proue her faire, or talke till dooms-day here\nKin. No Diuell will fright thee then so much as shee\nDuma. I neuer knew man hold vile stuffe so deere\nLon. Looke, heer's thy loue, my foot and her face see\nBer. O if the streets were paued with thine eyes,\nHer feet were much too dainty for such tread\nDuma. O vile, then as she goes what vpward lyes?\nThe street should see as she walk'd ouer head\nKin. But what of this, are we not all in loue?\nBer. O nothing so sure, and thereby all forsworne\nKin. Then leaue this chat, & good Berown now proue\nOur louing lawfull, and our fayth not torne\nDum. I marie there, some flattery for this euill\nLong. O some authority how to proceed,\nSome tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the diuell\nDum. Some salue for periurie,\nBer. O 'tis more then neede.\nHaue at you then affections men at armes,\nConsider what you first did sweare vnto:\nTo fast, to study, and to see no woman:\nFlat treason against the Kingly state of youth.\nSay, Can you fast? your stomacks are too young:\nAnd abstinence ingenders maladies.\nAnd where that you haue vow'd to studie (Lords)\nIn that each of you haue forsworne his Booke.\nCan you still dreame and pore, and thereon looke.\nFor when would you my Lord, or you, or you,\nHaue found the ground of studies excellence,\nWithout the beauty of a womans face;\nFrom womens eyes this doctrine I deriue,\nThey are the Ground, the Bookes, the Achadems,\nFrom whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.\nWhy, vniuersall plodding poysons vp\nThe nimble spirits in the arteries,\nAs motion and long during action tyres\nThe sinnowy vigour of the trauailer.\nNow for not looking on a womans face,\nYou haue in that forsworne the vse of eyes:\nAnd studie too, the causer of your vow.\nFor where is any Author in the world,\nTeaches such beauty as a womans eye:\nLearning is but an adiunct to our selfe,\nAnd where we are, our Learning likewise is.\nThen when our selues we see in Ladies eyes,\nWith our selues.\nDoe we not likewise see our learning there?\nO we haue made a Vow to studie, Lords,\nAnd in that vow we haue forsworne our Bookes:\nFor when would you (my Leege) or you, or you?\nIn leaden contemplation haue found out\nSuch fiery Numbers as the prompting eyes,\nOf beauties tutors haue inrich'd you with:\nOther slow Arts intirely keepe the braine:\nAnd therefore finding barraine practizers,\nScarce shew a haruest of their heauy toyle.\nBut Loue first learned in a Ladies eyes,\nLiues not alone emured in the braine:\nBut with the motion of all elements,\nCourses as swift as thought in euery power,\nAnd giues to euery power a double power,\nAboue their functions and their offices.\nIt addes a precious seeing to the eye:\nA Louers eyes will gaze an Eagle blinde.\nA Louers eare will heare the lowest sound.\nWhen the suspicious head of theft is stopt.\nLoues feeling is more soft and sensible,\nThen are the tender hornes of Cockle Snayles.\nLoues tongue proues dainty, Bachus grosse in taste,\nFor Valour, is not Loue a Hercules?\nStill climing trees in the Hesperides.\nSubtill as Sphinx, as sweet and musicall,\nAs bright Apollo's Lute, strung with his haire.\nAnd when Loue speakes, the voyce of all the Gods,\nMake heauen drowsie with the harmonie.\nNeuer durst Poet touch a pen to write,\nVntill his Inke were tempred with Loues sighes:\nO then his lines would rauish sauage eares,\nAnd plant in Tyrants milde humilitie.\nFrom womens eyes this doctrine I deriue.\nThey sparcle still the right promethean fire,\nThey are the Bookes, the Arts, the Achademes,\nThat shew, containe, and nourish all the world.\nElse none at all in ought proues excellent.\nThen fooles you were these women to forsweare:\nOr keeping what is sworne, you will proue fooles,\nFor Wisedomes sake, a word that all men loue:\nOr for Loues sake, a word that loues all men.\nOr for Mens sake, the author of these Women:\nOr Womens sake, by whom we men are Men.\nLet's once loose our oathes to finde our selues,\nOr else we loose our selues, to keepe our oathes:\nIt is religion to be thus forsworne.\nFor Charity it selfe fulfills the Law:\nAnd who can seuer loue from Charity\nKin. Saint Cupid then, and Souldiers to the field\nBer. Aduance your standards, & vpon them Lords,\nPell, mell, downe with them: but be first aduis'd,\nIn conflict that you get the Sunne of them\nLong. Now to plaine dealing, Lay these glozes by,\nShall we resolue to woe these girles of France?\nKin. And winne them too, therefore let vs deuise,\nSome entertainment for them in their Tents\nBer. First from the Park let vs conduct them thither,\nThen homeward euery man attach the hand\nOf his faire Mistresse, in the afternoone\nWe will with some strange pastime solace them:\nSuch as the shortnesse of the time can shape,\nFor Reuels, Dances, Maskes, and merry houres,\nFore-runne faire Loue, strewing her way with flowres\nKin. Away, away, no time shall be omitted,\nThat will be time, and may by vs be fitted\nBer. Alone, alone sowed Cockell, reap'd no Corne,\nAnd Iustice alwaies whirles in equall measure:\nLight Wenches may proue plagues to men forsworne,\nIf so, our Copper buyes no better treasure.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus.\nEnter the Pedant, Curate and Dull.\nPedant. Satis quid sufficit\nCurat. I praise God for you sir, your reasons at dinner\nhaue beene sharpe & sententious: pleasant without scurrillity,\nwitty without affection, audacious without impudency,\nlearned without opinion, and strange without\nheresie: I did conuerse this quondam day with a companion\nof the Kings, who is intituled, nominated, or called,\nDon Adriano de Armatho\nPed. Noui hominum tanquam te, His humour is lofty,\nhis discourse peremptorie: his tongue filed, his eye\nambitious, his gate maiesticall, and his generall behauiour\nvaine, ridiculous, and thrasonicall. He is too picked,\ntoo spruce, too affected, too odde, as it were, too peregrinat,\nas I may call it\nCurat. A most singular and choise Epithat,\nDraw out his Table-booke.\nPeda. He draweth out the thred of his verbositie, finer\nthen the staple of his argument. I abhor such phanaticall\nphantasims, such insociable and poynt deuise\ncompanions, such rackers of ortagriphie, as to speake\ndout fine, when he should say doubt; det, when he shold\npronounce debt; debt, not det: he clepeth a Calf, Caufe:\nhalfe, haufe: neighbour vocatur nebour; neigh abreuiated\nne: this is abhominable, which he would call abhominable\nit insinuateth me of infamie: ne inteligis domine, to\nmake franticke, lunaticke?\nCura. Laus deo, bene intelligo\nPeda. Bome boon for boon prescian, a little scratcht, 'twil\nserue.\nEnter Bragart, Boy.\nCurat. Vides ne quis venit?\nPeda. Video, & gaudio\nBrag. Chirra\nPeda. Quari Chirra, not Sirra?\nBrag. Men of peace well incountred\nPed. Most millitarie sir salutation\nBoy. They haue beene at a great feast of Languages,\nand stolne the scraps\nClow. O they haue liu'd long on the almes-basket of\nwords. I maruell thy M[aster]. hath not eaten thee for a word,\nfor thou art not so long by the head as\nhonorificabilitu%dinitatibus:\nThou art easier swallowed then a flapdragon\nPage. Peace, the peale begins\nBrag. Mounsier, are you not lettred?\nPage. Yes, yes, he teaches boyes the Horne-booke:\nWhat is Ab speld backward with the horn on his head?\nPeda. Ba, puericia with a horne added\nPag. Ba most seely Sheepe, with a horne: you heare\nhis learning\nPeda. Quis quis, thou Consonant?\nPag. The last of the fiue Vowels if You repeat them,\nor the fift if I\nPeda. I will repeat them: a e I\nPag. The Sheepe, the other two concludes it o u\nBrag. Now by the salt waue of the mediteranium, a\nsweet tutch, a quicke venewe of wit, snip snap, quick &\nhome, it reioyceth my intellect, true wit\nPage. Offered by a childe to an olde man: which is\nwit-old\nPeda. What is the figure? What is the figure?\nPage. Hornes\nPeda. Thou disputes like an Infant: goe whip thy\nGigge\nPag. Lend me your Horne to make one, and I will\nwhip about your Infamie vnum cita a gigge of a Cuckolds\nhorne\nClow. And I had but one penny in the world, thou\nshouldst haue it to buy Ginger bread: Hold, there is the\nvery Remuneration I had of thy Maister, thou halfpenny\npurse of wit, thou Pidgeon-egge of discretion. O & the\nheauens were so pleased, that thou wert but my Bastard;\nWhat a ioyfull father wouldst thou make mee? Goe to,\nthou hast it ad dungil, at the fingers ends, as they say\nPeda. Oh I smell false Latine, dunghel for vnguem\nBrag. Arts-man preambulat, we will bee singled from\nthe barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the Charghouse\non the top of the Mountaine?\nPeda. Or Mons the hill\nBrag. At your sweet pleasure, for the Mountaine\nPeda. I doe sans question\nBra. Sir, it is the Kings most sweet pleasure and affection,\nto congratulate the Princesse at her Pauilion, in\nthe posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call\nthe after-noone\nPed. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable,\ncongruent, and measurable for the after-noone: the\nword is well culd, chose, sweet, and apt I doe assure you\nsir, I doe assure\nBrag. Sir, the King is a noble Gentleman, and my familiar,\nI doe assure ye very good friend: for what is inward\nbetweene vs, let it passe. I doe beseech thee remember\nthy curtesie. I beseech thee apparell thy head:\nand among other importunate & most serious designes,\nand of great import indeed too: but let that passe, for I\nmust tell thee it will please his Grace (by the world)\nsometime to leane vpon my poore shoulder, and with\nhis royall finger thus dallie with my excrement, with my\nmustachio: but sweet heart let that passe. By the world\nI recount no fable, some certaine speciall honours it\npleaseth his greatnesse to impart to Armado a Souldier,\na man of trauell, that hath seene the world: but let that\npasse; the very all of all is: but sweet heart I do implore\nsecrecie, that the King would haue mee present the\nPrincesse (sweet chucke) with some delightfull ostentation,\nor show, or pageant, or anticke, or fire-worke:\nNow, vnderstanding that the Curate and your sweet self\nare good at such eruptions, and sodaine breaking out of\nmyrth (as it were) I haue acquainted you withall, to\nthe end to craue your assistance\nPeda. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies.\nSir Holofernes, as concerning some entertainment\nof time, some show in the posterior of this day, to bee\nrendred by our assistants the Kings command: and this\nmost gallant, illustrate and learned Gentleman, before\nthe Princesse: I say none so fit as to present the Nine\nWorthies\nCurat. Where will you finde men worthy enough to\npresent them?\nPeda. Iosua, your selfe: my selfe, and this gallant gentleman\nIudas Machabeus; this Swaine (because of his\ngreat limme or ioynt) shall passe Pompey the great, the\nPage Hercules\nBrag. Pardon sir, error: He is not quantitie enough\nfor that Worthies thumb, hee is not so big as the end of\nhis Club\nPeda. Shall I haue audience: he shall present Hercules\nin minoritie: his enter and exit shall bee strangling a\nSnake; and I will haue an Apologie for that purpose\nPag. An excellent deuice: so if any of the audience\nhisse, you may cry, Well done Hercules, now thou crushest\nthe Snake; that is the way to make an offence gracious,\nthough few haue the grace to doe it\nBrag. For the rest of the Worthies?\nPeda. I will play three my selfe\nPag. Thrice worthy Gentleman\nBrag. Shall I tell you a thing?\nPeda. We attend\nBrag. We will haue, if this fadge not, an Antique. I\nbeseech you follow\nPed. Via good-man Dull, thou hast spoken no word\nall this while\nDull. Nor vnderstood none neither sir\nPed. Alone, we will employ thee\nDull. Ile make one in a dance, or so: or I will play\non the taber to the Worthies, & let them dance the hey\nPed. Most Dull, honest Dull, to our sport away.\nEnter.\nEnter Ladies.\nQu. Sweet hearts we shall be rich ere we depart,\nIf fairings come thus plentifully in.\nA Lady wal'd about with Diamonds: Look you, what I\nhaue from the louing King\nRosa. Madam, came nothing else along with that?\nQu. Nothing but this: yes as much loue in Rime,\nAs would be cram'd vp in a sheet of paper\nWrit on both sides the leafe, margent and all,\nThat he was faine to seale on Cupids name\nRosa. That was the way to make his god-head wax:\nFor he hath beene fiue thousand yeeres a Boy\nKath. I, and a shrewd vnhappy gallowes too\nRos. You'll nere be friends with him, a kild your sister\nKath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heauy, and\nso she died: had she beene Light like you, of such a merrie\nnimble stirring spirit, she might a bin a Grandam ere\nshe died. And so may you: For a light heart liues long\nRos. What's your darke meaning mouse, of this light\nword?\nKat. A light condition in a beauty darke\nRos. We need more light to finde your meaning out\nKat. You'll marre the light by taking it in snuffe:\nTherefore Ile darkely end the argument\nRos. Look what you doe, you doe it stil i'th darke\nKat. So do not you, for you are a light Wench\nRos. Indeed I waigh not you, and therefore light\nKa. You waigh me not, O that's you care not for me\nRos. Great reason: for past care, is still past cure\nQu. Well bandied both, a set of Wit well played.\nBut Rosaline, you haue a Fauour too?\nWho sent it? and what is it?\nRos. I would you knew.\nAnd if my face were but as faire as yours,\nMy Fauour were as great, be witnesse this.\nNay, I haue Verses too, I thanke Berowne,\nThe numbers true, and were the numbring too.\nI were the fairest goddesse on the ground.\nI am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs.\nO he hath drawne my picture in his letter\nQu. Any thing like?\nRos. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise\nQu. Beauteous as Incke: a good conclusion\nKat. Faire as a text B. in a Coppie booke\nRos. Ware pensals. How? Let me not die your debtor,\nMy red Dominicall, my golden letter.\nO that your face were full of Oes\nQu. A Pox of that iest, and I beshrew all Shrowes:\nBut Katherine, what was sent to you\nFrom faire Dumaine?\nKat. Madame, this Gloue\nQu. Did he not send you twaine?\nKat. Yes Madame: and moreouer,\nSome thousand Verses of a faithfull Louer.\nA huge translation of hypocrisie,\nVildly compiled, profound simplicitie\nMar. This, and these Pearls, to me sent Longauile.\nThe Letter is too long by halfe a mile\nQu. I thinke no lesse: Dost thou wish in heart\nThe Chaine were longer, and the Letter short\nMar. I, or I would these hands might neuer part\nQuee. We are wise girles to mocke our Louers so\nRos. They are worse fooles to purchase mocking so.\nThat same Berowne ile torture ere I goe.\nO that I knew he were but in by th' weeke,\nHow I would make him fawne, and begge, and seeke,\nAnd wait the season, and obserue the times,\nAnd spend his prodigall wits in booteles rimes,\nAnd shape his seruice wholly to my deuice,\nAnd make him proud to make me proud that iests.\nSo pertaunt like would I o'resway his state,\nThat he shold be my foole, and I his fate\nQu. None are so surely caught, when they are catcht,\nAs Wit turn'd foole, follie in Wisedome hatch'd:\nHath wisedoms warrant, and the helpe of Schoole,\nAnd Wits owne grace to grace a learned Foole?\nRos. The bloud of youth burns not with such excesse,\nAs grauities reuolt to wantons be\nMar. Follie in Fooles beares not so strong a note,\nAs fool'ry in the Wise, when Wit doth dote:\nSince all the power thereof it doth apply,\nTo proue by Wit, worth in simplicitie.\nEnter Boyet.\nQu. Heere comes Boyet, and mirth in his face\nBoy. O I am stab'd with laughter, Wher's her Grace?\nQu. Thy newes Boyet?\nBoy. Prepare Madame, prepare.\nArme Wenches arme, incounters mounted are,\nAgainst your Peace, Loue doth approach, disguis'd:\nArmed in arguments, you'll be surpriz'd.\nMuster your Wits, stand in your owne defence,\nOr hide your heads like Cowards, and flie hence\nQu. Saint Dennis to S[aint]. Cupid: What are they,\nThat charge their breath against vs? Say scout say\nBoy. Vnder the coole shade of a Siccamore,\nI thought to close mine eyes some halfe an houre:\nWhen lo to interrupt my purpos'd rest,\nToward that shade I might behold addrest,\nThe King and his companions: warely\nI stole into a neighbour thicket by,\nAnd ouer-heard, what you shall ouer-heare:\nThat by and by disguis'd they will be heere.\nTheir Herald is a pretty knauish Page:\nThat well by heart hath con'd his embassage,\nAction and accent did they teach him there.\nThus must thou speake, and thus thy body beare.\nAnd euer and anon they made a doubt,\nPresence maiesticall would put him out:\nFor quoth the King, an Angell shalt thou see:\nYet feare not thou, but speake audaciously.\nThe Boy reply'd, An Angell is not euill:\nI should haue fear'd her, had she beene a deuill.\nWith that all laugh'd, and clap'd him on the shoulder,\nMaking the bold wagg by their praises bolder.\nOne rub'd his elboe thus, and fleer'd, and swore,\nA better speech was neuer spoke before.\nAnother with his finger and his thumb,\nCry'd via, we will doo't, come what will come.\nThe third he caper'd and cried, All goes well.\nThe fourth turn'd on the toe, and downe he fell:\nWith that they all did tumble on the ground,\nWith such a zelous laughter so profound,\nThat in this spleene ridiculous appeares,\nTo checke their folly passions solemne teares\nQue. But what, but what, come they to visit vs?\nBoy. They do, they do; and are apparel'd thus,\nLike Muscouites; or Russians, as I gesse.\nTheir purpose is to parlee, to court, and dance,\nAnd euery one his Loue-feat will aduance,\nVnto his seuerall mistresse: which they'll know\nBy fauours seuerall, which they did bestow\nQueen. And will they so? the Gallants shall be taskt:\nFor Ladies; we will euery one be maskt,\nAnd not a man of them shall haue the grace\nDespight of sute, to see a Ladies face.\nHold Rosaline, this Fauour thou shalt weare,\nAnd then the King will court thee for his Deare:\nHold, take thou this my sweet, and giue me thine,\nSo shall Berowne take me for Rosaline.\nAnd change your Fauours too, so shall your Loues\nWoo contrary, deceiu'd by these remoues\nRosa. Come on then, weare the fauours most in sight\nKath. But in this changing, What is your intent?\nQueen. The effect of my intent is to crosse theirs:\nThey doe it but in mocking merriment,\nAnd mocke for mocke is onely my intent.\nTheir seuerall counsels they vnbosome shall,\nTo Loues mistooke, and so be mockt withall.\nVpon the next occasion that we meete,\nWith Visages displayd to talke and greete\nRos. But shall we dance, if they desire vs too't?\nQuee. No, to the death we will not moue a foot,\nNor to their pen'd speech render we no grace:\nBut while 'tis spoke, each turne away his face\nBoy. Why that contempt will kill the keepers heart,\nAnd quite diuorce his memory from his part\nQuee. Therefore I doe it, and I make no doubt,\nThe rest will ere come in, if he be out.\nTheres no such sport, as sport by sport orethrowne:\nTo make theirs ours, and ours none but our owne.\nSo shall we stay mocking entended game,\nAnd they well mockt, depart away with shame.\nSound.\nBoy. The Trompet sounds, be maskt, the maskers\ncome.\nEnter Black moores with musicke, the Boy with a speech, and the\nrest of\nthe Lords disguised.\nPage. All haile, the richest Beauties on the earth\nBer. Beauties no richer then rich Taffata\nPag. A holy parcell of the fairest dames that euer turn'd\ntheir backes to mortall viewes.\nThe Ladies turne their backes to him.\nBer. Their eyes villaine, their eyes\nPag. That euer turn'd their eyes to mortall viewes.\nOut\nBoy. True, out indeed\nPag. Out of your fauours heauenly spirits vouchsafe\nNot to beholde\nBer. Once to behold, rogue\nPag. Once to behold with your Sunne beamed eyes,\nWith your Sunne beamed eyes\nBoy. They will not answer to that Epythite,\nyou were best call it Daughter beamed eyes\nPag. They do not marke me, and that brings me out\nBero. Is this your perfectnesse? be gon you rogue\nRosa. What would these strangers?\nKnow their mindes Boyet.\nIf they doe speake our language, 'tis our will\nThat some plaine man recount their purposes.\nKnow what they would?\nBoyet. What would you with the Princes?\nBer. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation\nRos. What would they, say they?\nBoy. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation\nRosa. Why that they haue, and bid them so be gon\nBoy. She saies you haue it, and you may be gon\nKin. Say to her we haue measur'd many miles,\nTo tread a Measure with you on the grasse\nBoy. They say that they haue measur'd many a mile,\nTo tread a Measure with you on this grasse\nRosa. It is not so. Aske them how many inches\nIs in one mile? If they haue measur'd manie,\nThe measure then of one is easlie told\nBoy. If to come hither, you haue measur'd miles,\nAnd many miles: the Princesse bids you tell,\nHow many inches doth fill vp one mile?\nBer. Tell her we measure them by weary steps\nBoy. She heares her selfe\nRosa. How manie wearie steps,\nOf many wearie miles you haue ore-gone,\nAre numbred in the trauell of one mile?\nBero. We number nothing that we spend for you,\nOur dutie is so rich, so infinite,\nThat we may doe it still without accompt.\nVouchsafe to shew the sunshine of your face,\nThat we (like sauages) may worship it\nRosa. My face is but a Moone and clouded too\nKin. Blessed are clouds, to doe as such clouds do.\nVouchsafe bright Moone, and these thy stars to shine,\n(Those clouds remooued) vpon our waterie eyne\nRosa. O vaine peticioner, beg a greater matter,\nThou now requests but Mooneshine in the water\nKin. Then in our measure, vouchsafe but one change.\nThou bidst me begge, this begging is not strange\nRosa. Play musicke then: nay you must doe it soone.\nNot yet no dance: thus change I like the Moone\nKin. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?\nRosa. You tooke the Moone at full, but now shee's\nchanged?\nKin. Yet still she is the Moone, and I the Man\nRosa. The musick playes, vouchsafe some motion to\nit: Our eares vouchsafe it\nKin. But your legges should doe it\nRos. Since you are strangers, & come here by chance,\nWee'll not be nice, take hands, we will not dance\nKin. Why take you hands then?\nRosa. Onelie to part friends.\nCurtsie sweet hearts, and so the Measure ends\nKin. More measure of this measure, be not nice\nRosa. We can afford no more at such a price\nKin. Prise your selues: What buyes your companie?\nRosa. Your absence onelie\nKin. That can neuer be\nRosa. Then cannot we be bought: and so adue,\nTwice to your Visore, and halfe once to you\nKin. If you denie to dance, let's hold more chat\nRos. In priuate then\nKin. I am best pleas'd with that\nBe. White handed Mistris, one sweet word with thee\nQu. Hony, and Milke, and Suger: there is three\nBer. Nay then two treyes, an if you grow so nice\nMethegline, Wort, and Malmsey; well runne dice:\nThere's halfe a dozen sweets\nQu. Seuenth sweet adue, since you can cogg,\nIle play no more with you\nBer. One word in secret\nQu. Let it not be sweet\nBer. Thou greeu'st my gall\nQu. Gall, bitter\nBer. Therefore meete\nDu. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?\nMar. Name it\nDum. Faire Ladie:\nMar. Say you so? Faire Lord:\nTake you that for your faire Lady\nDu. Please it you,\nAs much in priuate, and Ile bid adieu\nMar. What, was your vizard made without a tong?\nLong. I know the reason Ladie why you aske\nMar. O for your reason, quickly sir, I long\nLong. You haue a double tongue within your mask,\nAnd would affoord my speechlesse vizard halfe\nMar. Veale quoth the Dutch-man: is not Veale a\nCalfe?\nLong. A Calfe faire Ladie?\nMar. No, a faire Lord Calfe\nLong. Let's part the word\nMar. No, Ile not be your halfe:\nTake all and weane it, it may proue an Oxe\nLong. Looke how you but your selfe in these sharpe\nmockes.\nWill you giue hornes chast Ladie? Do not so\nMar. Then die a Calfe before your horns do grow\nLon. One word in priuate with you ere I die\nMar. Bleat softly then, the Butcher heares you cry\nBoyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen\nAs is the Razors edge, inuisible:\nCutting a smaller haire then may be seene,\nAboue the sense of sence so sensible:\nSeemeth their conference, their conceits haue wings,\nFleeter then arrows, bullets wind, thoght, swifter things\nRosa. Not one word more my maides, breake off,\nbreake off\nBer. By heauen, all drie beaten with pure scoffe\nKing. Farewell madde Wenches, you haue simple\nwits.\nExeunt.\nQu. Twentie adieus my frozen Muscouits.\nAre these the breed of wits so wondred at?\nBoyet. Tapers they are, with your sweete breathes\npuft out\nRosa. Wel-liking wits they haue, grosse, grosse, fat, fat\nQu. O pouertie in wit, Kingly poore flout.\nWill they not (thinke you) hang themselues to night?\nOr euer but in vizards shew their faces:\nThis pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite\nRosa. They were all in lamentable cases.\nThe King was weeping ripe for a good word\nQu. Berowne did sweare himselfe out of all suite\nMar. Dumaine was at my seruice, and his sword:\nNo point (quoth I:) my seruant straight was mute\nKa. Lord Longauill said I came ore his hart:\nAnd trow you what he call'd me?\nQu. Qualme perhaps\nKat. Yes in good faith\nQu. Go sicknesse as thou art\nRos. Well, better wits haue worne plain statute caps,\nBut will you heare; the King is my loue sworne\nQu. And quicke Berowne hath plighted faith to me\nKat. And Longauill was for my seruice borne\nMar. Dumaine is mine as sure as barke on tree\nBoyet. Madam, and prettie mistresses giue eare,\nImmediately they will againe be heere\nIn their owne shapes: for it can neuer be,\nThey will digest this harsh indignitie\nQu. Will they returne?\nBoy. They will they will, God knowes,\nAnd leape for ioy, though they are lame with blowes:\nTherefore change Fauours, and when they repaire,\nBlow like sweet Roses, in this summer aire\nQu. How blow? how blow? Speake to bee vnderstood\nBoy. Faire Ladies maskt, are Roses in their bud:\nDismaskt, their damaske sweet commixture showne,\nAre Angels vailing clouds, or Roses blowne\nQu. Auant perplexitie: What shall we do,\nIf they returne in their owne shapes to wo?\nRosa. Good Madam, if by me you'l be aduis'd.\nLet's mocke them still as well knowne as disguis'd:\nLet vs complaine to them what fooles were heare,\nDisguis'd like Muscouites in shapelesse geare:\nAnd wonder what they were, and to what end\nTheir shallow showes, and Prologue vildely pen'd:\nAnd their rough carriage so ridiculous,\nShould be presented at our Tent to vs\nBoyet. Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand\nQuee. Whip to our Tents, as Roes runnes ore Land.\nExeunt.\nEnter the King and the rest.\nKing. Faire sir, God saue you. Wher's the Princesse?\nBoy. Gone to her Tent.\nPlease it your Maiestie command me any seruice to her?\nKing. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word\nBoy. I will, and so will she, I know my Lord.\nEnter.\nBer. This fellow pickes vp wit as Pigeons pease,\nAnd vtters it againe, when Ioue doth please.\nHe is Wits Pedler, and retailes his Wares,\nAt Wakes, and Wassels, Meetings, Markets, Faires.\nAnd we that sell by grosse, the Lord doth know,\nHaue not the grace to grace it with such show.\nThis Gallant pins the Wenches on his sleeue.\nHad he bin Adam, he had tempted Eue.\nHe can carue too, and lispe: Why this is he,\nThat kist away his hand in courtesie.\nThis is the Ape of Forme, Monsieur the nice,\nThat when he plaies at Tables, chides the Dice\nIn honorable tearmes: Nay he can sing\nA meane most meanly, and in Vshering\nMend him who can: the Ladies call him sweete.\nThe staires as he treads on them kisse his feete.\nThis is the flower that smiles on euerie one,\nTo shew his teeth as white as Whales bone.\nAnd consciences that wil not die in debt,\nPay him the dutie of honie-tongued Boyet\nKing. A blister on his sweet tongue with my hart,\nThat put Armathoes Page out of his part.\nEnter the Ladies.\nBer. See where it comes. Behauiour what wer't thou,\nTill this madman shew'd thee? And what art thou now?\nKing. All haile sweet Madame, and faire time of day\nQu. Faire in all Haile is foule, as I conceiue\nKing. Construe my speeches better, if you may\nQu. Then wish me better, I wil giue you leaue\nKing. We came to visit you, and purpose now\nTo leade you to our Court, vouchsafe it then\nQu. This field shal hold me, and so hold your vow:\nNor God, nor I, delights in periur'd men\nKing. Rebuke me not for that which you prouoke:\nThe vertue of your eie must breake my oth\nQ. You nickname vertue: vice you should haue spoke:\nFor vertues office neuer breakes men troth.\nNow by my maiden honor, yet as pure\nAs the vnsallied Lilly, I protest,\nA world of torments though I should endure,\nI would not yeeld to be your houses guest:\nSo much I hate a breaking cause to be\nOf heauenly oaths, vow'd with integritie\nKin. O you haue liu'd in desolation heere,\nVnseene, vnuisited, much to our shame\nQu. Not so my Lord, it is not so I sweare,\nWe haue had pastimes heere, and pleasant game,\nA messe of Russians left vs but of late\nKin. How Madam? Russians?\nQu. I in truth, my Lord.\nTrim gallants, full of Courtship and of state\nRosa. Madam speake true. It is not so my Lord:\nMy Ladie (to the manner of the daies)\nIn curtesie giues vndeseruing praise.\nWe foure indeed confronted were with foure\nIn Russia habit: Heere they stayed an houre,\nAnd talk'd apace: and in that houre (my Lord)\nThey did not blesse vs with one happy word.\nI dare not call them fooles; but this I thinke,\nWhen they are thirstie, fooles would faine haue drinke\nBer. This iest is drie to me. Gentle sweete,\nYour wits makes wise things foolish when we greete\nWith eies best seeing, heauens fierie eie:\nBy light we loose light; your capacitie\nIs of that nature, that to your huge stoore,\nWise things seeme foolish, and rich things but poore\nRos. This proues you wise and rich: for in my eie\nBer. I am a foole, and full of pouertie\nRos. But that you take what doth to you belong,\nIt were a fault to snatch words from my tongue\nBer. O, I am yours, and all that I possesse\nRos. All the foole mine\nBer. I cannot giue you lesse\nRos. Which of the Vizards what it that you wore?\nBer. Where? when? What Vizard?\nWhy demand you this?\nRos. There, then, that vizard, that superfluous case,\nThat hid the worse, and shew'd the better face\nKin. We are discried,\nThey'l mocke vs now downeright\nDu. Let vs confesse, and turne it to a iest\nQue. Amaz'd my Lord? Why lookes your Highnes\nsadde?\nRosa. Helpe hold his browes, hee'l sound: why looke\nyou pale?\nSea-sicke I thinke comming from Muscouie\nBer. Thus poure the stars down plagues for periury.\nCan any face of brasse hold longer out?\nHeere stand I, Ladie dart thy skill at me,\nBruise me with scorne, confound me with a flout.\nThrust thy sharpe wit quite through my ignorance.\nCut me to peeces with thy keene conceit:\nAnd I will wish thee neuer more to dance,\nNor neuer more in Russian habit waite.\nO! neuer will I trust to speeches pen'd,\nNor to the motion of a Schoole-boies tongue.\nNor neuer come in vizard to my friend,\nNor woo in rime like a blind-harpers songue,\nTaffata phrases, silken tearmes precise,\nThree-pil'd Hyperboles, spruce affection;\nFigures pedanticall, these summer flies,\nHaue blowne me full of maggot ostentation.\nI do forsweare them, and I heere protest,\nBy this white Gloue (how white the hand God knows)\nHenceforth my woing minde shall be exprest\nIn russet yeas, and honest kersie noes.\nAnd to begin Wench, so God helpe me law,\nMy loue to thee is sound, sans cracke or flaw,\nRosa. Sans, sans, I pray you\nBer. Yet I haue a tricke\nOf the old rage: beare with me, I am sicke.\nIle leaue it by degrees: soft, let vs see,\nWrite Lord haue mercie on vs, on those three,\nThey are infected, in their hearts it lies:\nThey haue the plague, and caught it of your eyes:\nThese Lords are visited, you are not free:\nFor the Lords tokens on you do I see\nQu. No, they are free that gaue these tokens to vs\nBer. Our states are forfeit, seeke not to vndo vs\nRos. It is not so; for how can this be true,\nThat you stand forfeit, being those that sue\nBer. Peace, for I will not haue to do with you\nRos. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend\nBer. Speake for your selues, my wit is at an end\nKing. Teach vs sweete Madame, for our rude transgression,\nsome faire excuse\nQu. The fairest is confession.\nWere you not heere but euen now, disguis'd?\nKin. Madam, I was\nQu. And were you well aduis'd?\nKin. I was faire Madam\nQu. When you then were heere,\nWhat did you whisper in your Ladies eare?\nKing. That more then all the world I did respect her\nQu. When shee shall challenge this, you will reiect\nher\nKing. Vpon mine Honor no\nQu. Peace, peace, forbeare:\nYour oath once broke, you force not to forsweare\nKing. Despise me when I breake this oath of mine\nQu. I will, and therefore keepe it. Rosaline,\nWhat did the Russian whisper in your eare?\nRos. Madam, he swore that he did hold me deare\nAs precious eye-sight, and did value me\nAboue this World: adding thereto moreouer,\nThat he would Wed me, or else die my Louer\nQu. God giue thee ioy of him: the Noble Lord\nMost honorably doth vphold his word\nKing. What meane you Madame?\nBy my life, my troth\nI neuer swore this Ladie such an oth\nRos. By heauen you did; and to confirme it plaine,\nYou gaue me this: But take it sir againe\nKing. My faith and this, the Princesse I did giue,\nI knew her by this Iewell on her sleeue\nQu. Pardon me sir, this Iewell did she weare.\nAnd Lord Berowne (I thanke him) is my deare.\nWhat? Will you haue me, or your Pearle againe?\nBer. Neither of either, I remit both twaine.\nI see the tricke on't: Heere was a consent,\nKnowing aforehand of our merriment,\nTo dash it like a Christmas Comedie.\nSome carry-tale, some please-man, some slight Zanie,\nSome mumble-newes, some trencher-knight, som Dick\nThat smiles his cheeke in yeares, and knowes the trick\nTo make my Lady laugh, when she's dispos'd;\nTold our intents before: which once disclos'd,\nThe Ladies did change Fauours; and then we\nFollowing the signes, woo'd but the signe of she.\nNow to our periurie, to adde more terror,\nWe are againe forsworne in will and error.\nMuch vpon this tis: and might not you\nForestall our sport, to make vs thus vntrue?\nDo not you know my Ladies foot by'th squier?\nAnd laugh vpon the apple of her eie?\nAnd stand betweene her backe sir, and the fire,\nHolding a trencher, iesting merrilie?\nYou put our Page out: go, you are alowd.\nDie when you will, a smocke shall be your shrowd.\nYou leere vpon me, do you? There's an eie\nWounds like a Leaden sword\nBoy. Full merrily hath this braue manager, this carreere\nbene run\nBer. Loe, he is tilting straight. Peace, I haue don.\nEnter Clowne.\nWelcome pure wit, thou part'st a faire fray\nClo. O Lord sir, they would kno,\nWhether the three worthies shall come in, or no\nBer. What, are there but three?\nClo. No sir, but it is vara fine,\nFor euerie one pursents three\nBer. And three times thrice is nine\nClo. Not so sir, vnder correction sir, I hope it is not so.\nYou cannot beg vs sir, I can assure you sir, we know what\nwe know: I hope sir three times thrice sir\nBer. Is not nine\nClo. Vnder correction sir, wee know where-vntill it\ndoth amount\nBer. By Ioue, I alwaies tooke three threes for nine\nClow. O Lord sir, it were pittie you should get your\nliuing by reckning sir\nBer. How much is it?\nClo. O Lord sir, the parties themselues, the actors sir\nwill shew where-vntill it doth amount: for mine owne\npart, I am (as they say, but to perfect one man in one\npoore man) Pompion the great sir\nBer. Art thou one of the Worthies?\nClo. It pleased them to thinke me worthie of Pompey\nthe great: for mine owne part, I know not the degree of\nthe Worthie, but I am to stand for him\nBer. Go, bid them prepare.\nEnter.\nClo. We will turne it finely off sir, we wil take some\ncare\nKing. Berowne, they will shame vs:\nLet them not approach\nBer. We are shame-proofe my Lord: and 'tis some\npolicie, to haue one shew worse then the Kings and his\ncompanie\nKin. I say they shall not come\nQu. Nay my good Lord, let me ore-rule you now;\nThat sport best pleases, that doth least know how.\nWhere Zeale striues to content, and the contents\nDies in the Zeale of that which it presents:\nTheir forme confounded, makes most forme in mirth,\nWhen great things labouring perish in their birth\nBer. A right description of our sport my Lord.\nEnter Braggart.\nBrag. Annointed, I implore so much expence of thy\nroyall sweet breath, as will vtter a brace of words\nQu. Doth this man serue God?\nBer. Why aske you?\nQu. He speak's not like a man of God's making\nBrag. That's all one my faire sweet honie Monarch:\nFor I protest, the Schoolmaster is exceeding fantasticall:\nToo too vaine, too too vaine. But we wil put it (as they\nsay) to Fortuna delaguar, I wish you the peace of minde\nmost royall cupplement\nKing. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies;\nHe presents Hector of Troy, the Swaine Pompey y great,\nthe Parish Curate Alexander, Armadoes Page Hercules,\nthe Pedant Iudas Machabeus: and if these foure Worthies\nin their first shew thriue, these foure will change\nhabites, and present the other fiue\nBer. There is fiue in the first shew\nKin. You are deceiued, tis not so\nBer. The Pedant, the Braggart, the Hedge-Priest, the\nFoole, and the Boy,\nAbate throw at Novum, and the whole world againe,\nCannot pricke out fiue such, take each one in's vaine\nKin. The ship is vnder saile, and here she coms amain.\nEnter Pompey.\nClo. I Pompey am\nBer. You lie, you are not he\nClo. I Pompey am\nBoy. With Libbards head on knee\nBer. Well said old mocker,\nI must needs be friends with thee\nClo. I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the big\nDu. The great\nClo. It is great sir: Pompey surnam'd the great:\nThat oft in field, with Targe and Shield,\ndid make my foe to sweat:\nAnd trauailing along this coast, I heere am come by chance,\nAnd lay my Armes before the legs of this sweet Lasse of\nFrance.\nIf your Ladiship would say thankes Pompey, I had done\nLa. Great thankes great Pompey\nClo. Tis not so much worth: but I hope I was perfect.\nI made a little fault in great\nBer. My hat to a halfe-penie, Pompey prooues the\nbest Worthie.\nEnter Curate for Alexander.\nCurat. When in the world I liu'd, I was the worldes Commander:\nBy East, West, North, & South, I spred my conquering might\nMy Scutcheon plaine declares that I am Alisander\nBoiet. Your nose saies no, you are not:\nFor it stands too right\nBer. Your nose smells no, in this most tender smelling\nKnight\nQu. The Conqueror is dismaid:\nProceede good Alexander\nCur. When in the world I liued, I was the worldes Commander\nBoiet. Most true, 'tis right; you were so Alisander\nBer. Pompey the great\nClo. your seruant and Costard\nBer. Take away the Conqueror, take away Alisander\nClo. O sir, you haue ouerthrowne Alisander the conqueror:\nyou will be scrap'd out of the painted cloth for\nthis: your Lion that holds his Pollax sitting on a close\nstoole, will be giuen to Aiax. He will be the ninth worthie.\nA Conqueror, and affraid to speake? Runne away\nfor shame Alisander. There an't shall please you: a foolish\nmilde man, an honest man, looke you, & soon dasht.\nHe is a maruellous good neighbour insooth, and a verie\ngood Bowler: but for Alisander, alas you see, how 'tis a\nlittle ore-parted. But there are Worthies a comming,\nwill speake their minde in some other sort.\nExit Cu.\nQu. Stand aside good Pompey.\nEnter Pedant for Iudas, and the Boy for Hercules.\nPed. Great Hercules is presented by this Impe,\nWhose Club kil'd Cerberus that three-headed Canus,\nAnd when he was a babe, a childe, a shrimpe,\nThus did he strangle Serpents in his Manus:\nQuoniam, he seemeth in minoritie,\nErgo, I come with this Apologie.\nKeepe some state in thy exit, and vanish.\nExit Boy\nPed. Iudas I am\nDum. A Iudas?\nPed. Not Iscariot sir.\nIudas I am, ycliped Machabeus\nDum. Iudas Machabeus clipt, is plaine Iudas\nBer. A kissing traitor. How art thou prou'd Iudas?\nPed. Iudas I am\nDum. The more shame for you Iudas\nPed. What meane you sir?\nBoi. To make Iudas hang himselfe\nPed. Begin sir, you are my elder\nBer. Well follow'd, Iudas was hang'd on an Elder\nPed. I will not be put out of countenance\nBer. Because thou hast no face\nPed. What is this?\nBoi. A Citterne head\nDum. The head of a bodkin\nBer. A deaths face in a ring\nLon. The face of an old Roman coine, scarce seene\nBoi. The pummell of C\u00e6sars Faulchion\nDum. The caru'd-bone face on a Flaske\nBer. S[aint]. Georges halfe cheeke in a brooch\nDum. I, and in a brooch of Lead\nBer. I, and worne in the cap of a Tooth-drawer.\nAnd now forward, for we haue put thee in countenance\nPed. You haue put me out of countenance\nBer. False, we haue giuen thee faces\nPed. But you haue out-fac'd them all\nBer. And thou wer't a Lion, we would do so\nBoy. Therefore as he is, an Asse, let him go:\nAnd so adieu sweet Iude. Nay, why dost thou stay?\nDum. For the latter end of his name\nBer. For the Asse to the Iude: giue it him. Iudas away\nPed. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble\nBoy. A light for monsieur Iudas, it growes darke, he\nmay stumble\nQue. Alas poore Machabeus, how hath hee beene\nbaited.\nEnter Braggart.\nBer. Hide thy head Achilles, heere comes Hector in\nArmes\nDum. Though my mockes come home by me, I will\nnow be merrie\nKing. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this\nBoi. But is this Hector?\nKin. I thinke Hector was not so cleane timber'd\nLon. His legge is too big for Hector\nDum. More Calfe certaine\nBoi. No, he is best indued in the small\nBer. This cannot be Hector\nDum. He's a God or a Painter, for he makes faces\nBrag. The Armipotent Mars, of Launces the almighty,\ngaue Hector a gift\nDum. A gilt Nutmegge\nBer. A Lemmon\nLon. Stucke with Cloues\nDum. No clouen\nBrag. The Armipotent Mars of Launces the almighty,\nGaue Hector a gift, the heire of Illion;\nA man so breathed, that certaine he would fight: yea\nFrom morne till night, out of his Pauillion.\nI am that Flower\nDum. That Mint\nLong. That Cullambine\nBrag. Sweet Lord Longauill reine thy tongue\nLon. I must rather giue it the reine: for it runnes against\nHector\nDum. I, and Hector's a Grey-hound\nBrag. The sweet War-man is dead and rotten,\nSweet chuckes, beat not the bones of the buried:\nBut I will forward with my deuice;\nSweete Royaltie bestow on me the sence of hearing.\nBerowne steppes forth.\nQu. Speake braue Hector, we are much delighted\nBrag. i do adore thy sweet Graces slipper\nBoy. Loues her by the foot\nDum. He may not by the yard\nBrag. This Hector farre surmounted Hanniball.\nThe partie is gone\nClo. Fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two moneths\non her way\nBrag. What meanest thou?\nClo. Faith vnlesse you play the honest Troyan, the\npoore Wench is cast away: she's quick, the child brags\nin her belly alreadie: tis yours\nBrag. Dost thou infamonize me among Potentates?\nThou shalt die\nClo. Then shall Hector be whipt for Iaquenetta that\nis quicke by him, and hang'd for Pompey, that is dead by\nhim\nDum. Most rare Pompey\nBoi. Renowned Pompey\nBer. Greater then great, great, great, great Pompey:\nPompey the huge\nDum. Hector trembles\nBer. Pompey is moued, more Atees more Atees stirre\nthem, or stirre them on\nDum. Hector will challenge him\nBer. I, if a'haue no more mans blood in's belly, then\nwill sup a Flea\nBrag. By the North-pole I do challenge thee\nClo. I wil not fight with a pole like a Northern man;\nIle slash, Ile do it by the sword: I pray you let mee borrow\nmy Armes againe\nDum. Roome for the incensed Worthies\nClo. Ile do it in my shirt\nDum. Most resolute Pompey\nPage. Master, let me take you a button hole lower:\nDo you not see Pompey is vncasing for the combat: what\nmeane you? you will lose your reputation\nBrag. Gentlemen and Souldiers pardon me, I will\nnot combat in my shirt\nDu. You may not denie it, Pompey hath made the\nchallenge\nBrag. Sweet bloods, I both may, and will\nBer. What reason haue you for't?\nBrag. The naked truth of it is, I haue no shirt,\nI go woolward for penance\nBoy. True, and it was inioyned him in Rome for want\nof Linnen: since when, Ile be sworne he wore none, but\na dishclout of Iaquenettas, and that hee weares next his\nheart for a fauour.\nEnter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcade.\nMar. God saue you Madame\nQu. Welcome Marcade, but that thou interruptest\nour merriment\nMarc. I am sorrie Madam, for the newes I bring is\nheauie in my tongue. The King your father\nQu. Dead for my life\nMar. Euen so: My tale is told\nBer. Worthies away, the Scene begins to cloud\nBrag. For mine owne part, I breath free breath: I\nhaue seene the day of wrong, through the little hole of\ndiscretion, and I will right my selfe like a Souldier.\nExeunt. Worthies\nKin. How fare's your Maiestie?\nQu. Boyet prepare, I will away to night\nKin. Madame not so, I do beseech you stay\nQu. Prepare I say. I thanke you gracious Lords\nFor all your faire endeuours and entreats:\nOut of a new sad-soule, that you vouchsafe,\nIn your rich wisedome to excuse, or hide,\nThe liberall opposition of our spirits,\nIf ouer-boldly we haue borne our selues,\nIn the conuerse of breath (your gentlenesse\nWas guiltie of it.) Farewell worthie Lord:\nA heauie heart beares not a humble tongue.\nExcuse me so, comming so short of thankes,\nFor my great suite, so easily obtain'd\nKin. The extreme parts of time, extremelie formes\nAll causes to the purpose of his speed:\nAnd often at his verie loose decides\nThat, which long processe could not arbitrate.\nAnd though the mourning brow of progenie\nForbid the smiling curtesie of Loue:\nThe holy suite which faine it would conuince,\nYet since loues argument was first on foote,\nLet not the cloud of sorrow iustle it\nFrom what it purpos'd: since to waile friends lost,\nIs not by much so wholsome profitable,\nAs to reioyce at friends but newly found\nQu. I vnderstand you not, my greefes are double\nBer. Honest plain words, best pierce the ears of griefe\nAnd by these badges vnderstand the King,\nFor your faire sakes haue we neglected time,\nPlaid foule play with our oaths: your beautie Ladies\nHath much deformed vs, fashioning our humors\nEuen to the opposed end of our intents.\nAnd what in vs hath seem'd ridiculous:\nAs Loue is full of vnbefitting straines,\nAll wanton as a childe, skipping and vaine.\nForm'd by the eie, and therefore like the eie.\nFull of straying shapes, of habits, and of formes\nVarying in subiects as the eie doth roule,\nTo euerie varied obiect in his glance:\nWhich partie-coated presence of loose loue\nPut on by vs, if in your heauenly eies,\nHaue misbecom'd our oathes and grauities.\nThose heauenlie eies that looke into these faults,\nSuggested vs to make: therefore Ladies\nOur loue being yours, the error that Loue makes\nIs likewise yours. We to our selues proue false,\nBy being once false, for euer to be true\nTo those that make vs both, faire Ladies you.\nAnd euen that falshood in it selfe a sinne,\nThus purifies it selfe, and turnes to grace\nQu. We haue receiu'd your Letters, full of Loue:\nYour Fauours, the Ambassadors of Loue.\nAnd in our maiden counsaile rated them,\nAt courtship, pleasant iest, and curtesie,\nAs bumbast and as lining to the time:\nBut more deuout then these are our respects\nHaue we not bene, and therefore met your loues\nIn their owne fashion, like a merriment\nDu. Our letters Madam, shew'd much more then iest\nLon. So did our lookes\nRosa. We did not coat them so\nKin. Now at the latest minute of the houre,\nGrant vs your loues\nQu. A time me thinkes too short,\nTo make a world-without-end bargaine in:\nNo, no my Lord, your Grace is periur'd much,\nFull of deare guiltinesse, and therefore this:\nIf for my Loue (as there is no such cause)\nYou will do ought, this shall you do for me.\nYour oth I will not trust: but go with speed\nTo some forlorne and naked Hermitage,\nRemote from all the pleasures of the world:\nThere stay, vntill the twelue Celestiall Signes\nHaue brought about their annuall reckoning.\nIf this austere insociable life,\nChange not your offer made in heate of blood:\nIf frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds\nNip not the gaudie blossomes of your Loue,\nBut that it beare this triall, and last loue:\nThen at the expiration of the yeare,\nCome challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,\nAnd by this Virgin palme, now kissing thine,\nI will be thine: and till that instant shut\nMy wofull selfe vp in a mourning house,\nRaining the teares of lamentation,\nFor the remembrance of my Fathers death.\nIf this thou do denie, let our hands part,\nNeither intitled in the others hart\nKin. If this, or more then this, I would denie,\nTo flatter vp these powers of mine with rest,\nThe sodaine hand of death close vp mine eie.\nHence euer then, my heart is in thy brest\nBer. And what to me my Loue? and what to me?\nRos. You must be purged too, your sins are rack'd.\nYou are attaint with faults and periurie:\nTherefore if you my fauor meane to get,\nA tweluemonth shall you spend, and neuer rest,\nBut seeke the wearie beds of people sicke\nDu. But what to me my loue? but what to me?\nKat. A wife? a beard, faire health, and honestie,\nWith three-fold loue, I wish you all these three\nDu. O shall I say, I thanke you gentle wife?\nKat. Not so my Lord, a tweluemonth and a day,\nIle marke no words that smoothfac'd wooers say.\nCome when the King doth to my Ladie come:\nThen if I haue much loue, Ile giue you some\nDum. Ile serue thee true and faithfully till then\nKath. Yet sweare not, least ye be forsworne agen\nLon. What saies Maria?\nMari. At the tweluemonths end,\nIle change my blacke Gowne, for a faithfull friend\nLon. Ile stay with patience: but the time is long\nMari. The liker you, few taller are so yong\nBer. Studies my Ladie? Mistresse, looke on me,\nBehold the window of my heart, mine eie:\nWhat humble suite attends thy answer there,\nImpose some seruice on me for my loue\nRos. Oft haue I heard of you my Lord Berowne,\nBefore I saw you: and the worlds large tongue\nProclaimes you for a man repleate with mockes,\nFull of comparisons, and wounding floutes:\nWhich you on all estates will execute,\nThat lie within the mercie of your wit.\nTo weed this Wormewood from your fruitfull braine,\nAnd therewithall to win me, if you please,\nWithout the which I am not to be won:\nYou shall this tweluemonth terme from day to day,\nVisit the speechlesse sicke, and still conuerse\nWith groaning wretches: and your taske shall be,\nWith all the fierce endeuour of your wit,\nTo enforce the pained impotent to smile\nBer. To moue wilde laughter in the throate of death?\nIt cannot be, it is impossible.\nMirth cannot moue a soule in agonie\nRos. Why that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,\nWhose influence is begot of that loose grace,\nWhich shallow laughing hearers giue to fooles:\nA iests prosperitie, lies in the eare\nOf him that heares it, neuer in the tongue\nOf him that makes it: then, if sickly eares,\nDeaft with the clamors of their owne deare grones,\nWill heare your idle scornes; continue then,\nAnd I will haue you, and that fault withall.\nBut if they will not, throw away that spirit,\nAnd I shal finde you emptie of that fault,\nRight ioyfull of your reformation\nBer. A tweluemonth? Well: befall what will befall,\nIle iest a tweluemonth in an Hospitall\nQu. I sweet my Lord, and so I take my leaue\nKing. No Madam, we will bring you on your way\nBer. Our woing doth not end like an old Play:\nIacke hath not Gill: these Ladies courtesie\nMight wel haue made our sport a Comedie\nKin. Come sir, it wants a tweluemonth and a day,\nAnd then 'twil end\nBer. That's too long for a play.\nEnter Braggart.\nBrag. Sweet Maiesty vouchsafe me\nQu. Was not that Hector?\nDum. The worthie Knight of Troy\nBrag. I wil kisse thy royal finger, and take leaue.\nI am a Votarie, I haue vow'd to Iaquenetta to holde the\nPlough for her sweet loue three yeares. But most esteemed\ngreatnesse, wil you heare the Dialogue that the two\nLearned men haue compiled, in praise of the Owle and\nthe Cuckow? It should haue followed in the end of our\nshew\nKin. Call them forth quickely, we will do so\nBrag. Holla, Approach.\nEnter all.\nThis side is Hiems, Winter.\nThis Ver, the Spring: the one maintained by the Owle,\nTh' other by the Cuckow.\nVer, begin.\nThe Song.\nWhen Dasies pied, and Violets blew,\nAnd Cuckow-buds of yellow hew:\nAnd Ladie-smockes all siluer white,\nDo paint the Medowes with delight.\nThe Cuckow then on euerie tree,\nMockes married men, for thus sings he,\nCuckow.\nCuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,\nVnpleasing to a married eare.\nWhen Shepheards pipe on Oaten strawes,\nAnd merrie Larkes are Ploughmens clockes:\nWhen Turtles tread, and Rookes and Dawes,\nAnd Maidens bleach their summer smockes:\nThe Cuckow then on euerie tree\nMockes married men; for thus sings he,\nCuckow.\nCuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,\nVnpleasing to a married eare\nWinter. When Isicles hang by the wall,\nAnd Dicke the Shepheard blowes his naile;\nAnd Tom beares Logges into the hall,\nAnd Milke comes frozen home in paile:\nWhen blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,\nThen nightly sings the staring Owle\nTuwhit towho.\nA merrie note,\nWhile greasie Ione doth keele the pot.\nWhen all aloud the winde doth blow,\nAnd coffing drownes the Parsons saw:\nAnd birds sit brooding in the snow,\nAnd Marrians nose lookes red and raw:\nWhen roasted Crabs hisse in the bowle,\nThen nightly sings the staring Owle,\nTuwhit towho:\nA merrie note,\nWhile greasie Ione doth keele the pot\nBrag. The Words of Mercurie,\nAre harsh after the songs of Apollo:\nYou that way; we this way.\nExeunt. omnes.\nFINIS. Loues Labour's lost.","title":"Loues Labour's lost","type":"page"}