Puslapio vaizdai

Arm. I do adore thy fweet Grace's Slipper.
Boyet. Loves her by the Foot.
Dum. He may not by the Yard.

Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal...
The Party is gone.

Coft. Fellow Hector, fhe is gone; fhe is two Months on her way.

Arm. What mean'ft thou?

Coft. Faith unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor Wench is caft away; he's quick, the Child brags in her Belly already. 'Tis yours.

Arm. Do'ft thou infamonize me among Potentates? Thou fhalt die.

Coft. Then fhall Hector be whipt for Faguenetta that is quick by him; and hang'd for Pompey, that is dead by him.

Dum. Moft rare Pompey.
Boyet. Renown'd Pompey.

Biron, Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey :
Pompey the Huge.

Dum. Hector trembles.

Biron. Pompey is mov'd, more Ates, more Ates, ftir them on, ftir them on.

Dum. Hector will challenge him.

Biron. Ay, if he have no more Man's Blood in's Belly than will fup a Flea.

Arm. By the North-pole I do challenge thee.
Coft. I will not fight with a Pole like a Northern Man;
I'll flash; I'll do't by the Sword: I pray you let me bor-
row my Arms again.

Dum. Room for the incenfed Worthies.

Caft. I'll do it in my Shirt.

Dum. Moft refolute Pompey.

Moth. Mafter, let me take you a Button-hole lower. Do you not fee Pompey is uncafing for the Combat: What mean you? You will lofe your Reputation.

Aru. Gentlemen and Soldiers pardon me, I will not Combat in my Shirt.

Dum. You may not deny it, Pompey hath made the Chal



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Arm. Sweet Bloods, I both may, and will.
Biron. What Reason have you for't?
Arm. The naked Truth of it is, I have no Shirt,
I go woolward for Penance.

Boyet. True, and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of Linnen; fince when, I'll be fworn he wore none, but a Dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that he wears next his Heart for

a Favour.

Enter Macard.

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Mac. God fave you, Madam.

Prin. Welcome Macard, but that thou interrupteft our Merriment.

Mac. I am forry Madam, for the News I bring is heavy in my Tongue. The King your Father

Prin. Dead for my Life.

Mac. Even fo: My Tale is told.

Biron. Worthies away, the Scene begins to cloud, Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free Breath; I have feen the Day of Wrong through the little Hole of Difcretion, and I will right my felf like a Soldier.

[Exeunt Worthies.

King. How fares your Majesty?
Prin. Boyet prepare, I will away to Night.
King. Madam not fo, I do befeech you stay.
Prin. Prepare I fay. I thank you, gracious Lords,
For all your fair Endeavours; And Entreats,
Out of a new fad Soul, that you vouchfafe,
In your rich Wisdom to excufe or hide,
The liberal Oppofition of our Spirits;
If over-boldly we have born our felves,
In the Converse of Breath, your Gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy Lord;
An heavy Heart bears not an humble Tongue:
Excufe me fo, coming fo fhort of Thanks,
For my great Suit fo eafily obtain'd.

King. The extream Parts of Time extreamly form
All Caufes to the Purpose of his Speed,

And often at his very loofe decides

That, which long Procefs of Time could not arbitrate.


And though the mourning Brow of Progeny
Forbid the fmiling Courtefie of Love,
The holy Suit which fain it would convince;
Yet fince Love's Argument was firft on foot,
Let not the Cloud of Sorrow juftle it
From what it purpofed. Since to wail Friends loft
Is not by much fo wholefome, profitable,
As to rejoice at Friends but newly found.

Prin. I understand you not, my Griefs are double.
Biron, Honeft plain Words beft pierce the Cares of Grief.
And by these Badges understand the King,
For your fair Sakes have we neglected Time,
Play'd foul Play with our Oaths: Your Beauty, Ladies
Hath much deformed us, fashioning our Humours
Even to the oppofed End of our Intents;
And what in us hath feem'd ridiculous,
As Love is full of unbefitting Strains,
All wanton as a Child, skipping and vain,
Form'd by the Eye, and therefore like the Eyes,
Full of ftraying Shapes, of Habits, and of Forms,
Varying in Subjects as the Eye doth rowl,
To every varied Object in his Glance;
Which party-coated prefence of loofe Love
Put on by us, if in your Heav'nly Eyes,
Have misbecom'd our Oaths and Gravities;
Thofe Heav'nly Eyes that look into thefe Faults,
Suggested us to make: Therefore, Ladies,
Our Love being yours, the Error that Love makes
Is likewife yours. We to our felves prove false,
By being once falfe, for ever to be true
To thofe that make us both, fair Ladies you;
And even that falfhood in it felfa Sin,
Thus purifies it felf, and turns to Grace.

Prin. We have receiv'd your Letters, full of Love,
Your Favours, the Embaffadors of Love:
And in our Maiden Council rated them
At Courtship, pleasant Jeft, and Courtefie,
As Bumbaft, and as Lining to the Time:
But more devout than these are our Respects
Have we not been; and therefore met your Loves
In their own Fashion, like a Merriment.



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Dum. Our Letters, Madam, fhew'd much more than Jeft.
Long. So did our Looks.

Rofa. We did not coat them fo.

King. Now at the latest Minute of the Hour,
Grant us your Loves.

Prin. A Time methinks too fhort,
To make a World-without-end Bargain in;
No, no, my Lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear Guiltinefs, and therefore this:
If for my Love (as there is no fuch Cause)
You will do ought, this fhall you do for me;
Your Oath I will not truft; but go with speed
To fome forlorn and naked Hermitage,
Remote from all the Pleasures of the World;
There ftay until the twelve Celestial Signs
Have brought about their Annual Reckoning.
If this auftere infociable Life,

Change not your Offer made in Heat of Blood:
If Frofts, and Fafts, hard Lodging, and thin Weeds
Nip not the gaudy Bloffoms of your Love,

But that it bear this Trial, and laft Love;
Then at the Expiration of the Year,
Come challenge me, challenge me by thefe Deferts;
And by this Virgin Palm, now kiffing thine,

I will be thine; and 'till that Inftant shut

My woful felf up in a mourning House,
Raining the Tears of Lamentation,
For the Remembrance of my Father's Death.
If this thou do deny, let our Hands part,
Neither intituled in the other's Heart.

King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up thefe Powers of mine with reft;
The fudden Hand of Death close up mine Eye.
Hence ever then, my Heart is in thy Breast.

Biron. And what to me, my Love? and what to me?
Rofa. You must be purged too, your Sins are rank,
You are attaint with Fault and Perjury;
Therefore if you my Favour mean to get,
A Twelve-month fhall you fpend, and never rest,
But feek the weary Beds of People fick.


Dum. But what to me, my Love? but what to me? Kath. A Wife, a Beard, fair Health and Honesty; With three-fold Love I wish you all these three.

Dum. O fhall I fay, I thank you, gentle Wife? Kath. Not fo, my Lord; a Twelve-month and a Day, I'll mark no Words that fmooth'd-fac'd Wooers fay. Come when the King doth to my Lady come; Then if I have much Love, I'll give you fome. Dum. I'll ferve thee true and faithfully 'till then. Kath. Yet fwear not, leaft ye be forfworn again. Long. What fays Maria?

Mar. At the Twelve-month's End

I'll change my black Gown for a faithful Friend.
Long. I'll ftay with Patience; but the Time is long.
Mar. The liker you, few taller are fo young.
Biron. Studies my Lady? Miftrefs, look on me,
Behold the Window of my Heart, mine Eye:
What humble Suit attends thy Answer there,
Impose fome Service on me for my Love.

Rofa. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,
Before I faw you; and the World's large Tongue
Proclaims you for a Man repleat with Mocks,
Full of Comparisons, and wounding Flouts,
Which you on all Eftates will execute,
That lye within the Mercy of your Wit:
To weed this Wormwood from your fruitful Brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
Without the which I am not to be won;
You fhall this Twelve-month term from Day to Day,
Vifit the speechlefs Sick, and still converfe
With groaning Wretches; and your Task fhall be,
With all the fierce Endeavour of your Wit,
To enforce the pained Impotent to smile.

Biron. To move wild Laughter in the Throat of Death? It cannot be, it is impoffible:

Mirth cannot move a Soul in Agony.

Rofa. Why that's the way to choak a gibing Spirit,
Whofe Influence is begot of that loose Grace,
Which shallow laughing Hearers give to Fools:
A Jelt's Profperity lyes in the Ear


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