Puslapio vaizdai

But come, the Bow; now Mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well, is then accounted ill.
Thus will I fave my Credit in the shoot,
Not wounding, Pity would not let me do't:
If wounding, then it was to fhew my Skill,
That more for Praife than Purpose meant to kill.
And out of Queftion, fo it is fometimes,
Glory grows guilty of detefted Crimes,
When for Fame's fake to praise an outward Part,
We bend to that, the working of the Heart.
As I for Praife alone now feek to fpill

The poor Dear's Blood, that my Heart means no ill.
Boyet. Do not curft Wives hold that felf-fovereignty
Only for Praife fake, when they strive to be
Lords o'er their Lords?


Prin. Only for Praise, and Praise we may afford
any Lady that fubdues her Lord.

Enter Coftard.

Boyet. Here comes a Member of the Common-wealth. Coft. God dig-you-den all, pray you which is the head Lady?

Prin. Thou shalt know her, Fellow, by the reft that have no Heads.

Coft. Which is the greatest Lady, the highest?
Prin. The thickest and the talleft.

Coft. The thickeft and the talleft; it is fo, truth is truth. And your Wafte, Miftrefs, were as flender as my Wit, One a thefe Maids Girdles for your Waste should be fit. Are not you the chief Woman? You are the thickeft here. Prin. What's your Will, Sir? What's your Will? Coft. I have a Letter from Monfieur Biron,

To one Lady Rofaline.


Prin. Othy Letter, thy Letter: He's a good Friend of Stand afide, good Bearer. Boyet, you can carve, Break up this Capon.

Boyet. I am bound to ferve.

This Letter is miftook, it importeth none here;

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin. We will read it, I fwear.

Break the Neck of the Wax, and every one give Ear.


Boyet reads.


Y Heaven, that thou art Fair, is most infallible; true that thou art Beauteous; Truth it felf that thou art Lovely; more fairer than Fair, beautiful than Beauteous, truer than Truth it felf; have Commiferation on thy heroi cal Vaffal. The magnanimous and moft illuftrate King Cophetua fet Eye upon the pernicious and indubitate Beggar Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly fay, Veni, vidi, vici; which to Anatomize in the Vulgar, O base and obfcure Vulgar; videlicet, he came, faw and overcame; he came one, faw two, overcome three. Who came? the King. Why did he come? to fee. Why did he fee? to overcome. To whom came he? to the Beggar. What faw he? the Beggar. Who overcame him? the Beggar. The Conclufion is Victory; On whofe fide? the King's; the : Captive is inrich'd: On whofe fide? the Beggar's. The Catastrophe is a Nuptial: On whofe fide? the King's: No, on both in one, or one in both: I am the King, (for fo ftands the Comparison) thou the Beggar, for fo witneffeth thy Lowlinefs. Shall I command thy Love? I may. Shall I enforce thy Love? I could. Shall I entreat thy Love? I will. What fhalt thou exchange for Rags? Robes; for Tittles? Titles; for thy felf? me. Thus expecting thy Reply, I prophane my Lips on thy Foot, my Eyes on thy Picture, and my Heart on thy every Part.

Thine in the dearest design of Industry,

Don Adriana de Armado.

Thus doft thou hear the Nemean Lion roar
'Gainst thee thou Lamb, that ftandeft as his Prey:
Submiffive fall his princely feet before,

And he from Forage will incline to play.

But if thou ftrive (poor Soul) what art thou then?
Food for his Rage, Repafture for his Den.

Prin. What Plume of Feather is he that indited this Letter? What Vane? What Weathercock? Did you ever hear better?

Bøyet. I am much deceived, but I remember the Stile. Prin. Elfe your Memory is bad, going o'er it e're while. Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in Court, A Phantafme, a Monarcho, and one that makes Sport


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To the Prince and his Book-mates.
Prin. Thou Fellow, a Word.
Who gave thee this Letter?

Coft. I told you, my Lord.
Prin. To whom should'st thou give it?
Coft. From my Lord to my Lady.
Prin. From which Lord to which Lady?
Coft. From my Lord Berown, a good Mafter of mine,
To a Lady of France that he call'd Rofaline.

Prin. Thou haft mistaken his Letter. Come Lords away. Here Sweet, put up this, 'twill be thine another Day.


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Boyet. Who is the Shooter? who is the Shooter?
Rofa. Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet. Ay, my Continent of Beauty.

Rofa. Why the that bears the Bow. Finely put off, Boyet. My Lady goes to kill Horns; but if thou marry, Hang me by the Neck, if Horns that Year miscarry. Finely put on

Rofa. Well then, I am the Shooter.
Boyet. And who is your Deer?

Rofa. If we chufe by Horns, your felf; come not near.
Finely put on indeed.

Mar. You ftill wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the Brow.

Boyet. But the her felf is hit lower.

Have I hit her now?

Rofa. Shall I come upon thee with an old Saying, That was a Man when King Pippin of France was a little Boy, as touching the hit it.

Bojet. So I may anfwer thee with one as old, That was a Woman, when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little Wench, as touching the hit it.

Rofa. Thou can't not hit it, hit it, hit it.

Thou can't not hit it, my good Man.

Boyet. I cannot, cannot, cannot.

And I cannot another can.

[Exit Rofa

Coft. By my troth most pleasant, how both did fit it. Mar. A Mark marvellous well fhot; for they both did

hit it.


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Boyet. A Mark, O mark but that Mark! a Mark, fays my Lady.

Let the Mark have a Prickin't, to meet at, if it may be. Mar. Wide a'th bow Hand, i'faith your Hand is out. Coft. Indeed a'must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the Clout.

Boyet. And if my Hand be out, then belike your Hand

is in.

Coft. Then will the get the upshot by cleaving the Pin. Mar. Come, come, you talk greafily, your Lips grow foul.

Coft. She's too hard for you at Pricks, Sir, challenge her to bowl.

Boyet. I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good Owl. Coft. By my Soul a Swain, a moft fimple Clown. Lord, Lord! how the Ladies and I have put him down. O my troth moft fweet Jefts, moft incony vulgar Wit, When it come fo fmoorly off, fo obfcenely, as it were, fo fit.

Armado a'th to fide, O a most dainty Man.

To fee him walk before a Lady, and to bear her Fan. To fee him kiss his Hand, and how moft fweetly he will fwear:

And his Page at other fide, that handful of Wit,
Ah Heav'ns! it is a moft pathetical Nit.
Sowla, Sowla.

f Shout within.



Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Nathaniel. Nath. Very reverent Sport truly, and done in the Teftimony of a good Confcience."

Hol. The Deer was (as you know) fanguis in Blood, ripe. as a Pomwater, who now hangeth like a Jewel in the Ear of Cœlo the Sky, the Welkin, the Heaven, and anon falleth like a Crab on the Face of Terra, the Soil, the Land, the Earth.

Nath. Truly Mafter Holofernes, the Epithetes are fweetly varied like a Schollar at the leaft: But, Sir, I affure ye, was a Buck of the firft Head.


Hol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.
Dull. 'Twas not a hand credo, 'twas a Pricket.

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Hol. Moft barbarous Intimation; yet a kind of Infinuation, as it were in via, in way of Explication facere, as it were Replication, or rather oftentare, to fhow as it were his Inclination after his undreffed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or rathereft unconfirmed Fashion, to infert again my hand credo for a Deer.

Dull. I faid the Deer was not a haud credo, 'twas a Pricket.

Hol. Twice fod Simplicity, bis coctus; O thou Monster Ignorance, how deformed doeft thou look?

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed on the Dainties that are bred in a Book.

He hath not eat Paper as it were;
He hath not drunk Ink.

His Intellect is not replenished, he is only an Animal, only fenfible in the duller parts; and fuch barren Plants are fet before us, that we thankful fhould be; which we tafte, and feeling, are for thofe Parts that do fructifie in us more than he.

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a Fool;

So were there a Patch fet on Learning, to see him in a

But omne bene fay I, being of an old Father's Mind,
Many can brook the Weather, that love not the Wind.

Dull. You too are Book-men; Can you tell by your Wit, what was a Month old at Cains Birth, that's not five Weeks old as yet?

Hol. Dictinna Good-man Dull, Dictinna Good-man Dull.
Dull. What is Dictinna?

Nath. A Title to Phebe, to Luna, to the Moon.

Hol. The Moon was a Month old when Adam was no


And wrought not to five Weeks when he came to fivefcore. Th' Allufion holds in the Exchange.

Dull. 'Tis true indeed, the Collufion holds in the Exchange.

Hol. God comfort thy Capacity, I fay the Allufion holds in the Exchange.

Dull. And I fay the Pollufion holds in the Exchange; for the Moon is never but a Month old; and I fay befide 'twas a Pricket that the Princefs kill'd.



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