her Arm. I do adore thy fweet Grace's Slipper. Dum. He may not by the Yard. Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal. Coft. Fellow Hector, fhe is gone; the is two Months on way. Arm, What mean'ft thou? Coft. Faith unless you play the honeft Trojan, the poor Wench is caft away; fhe's quick, the Child brags in her Belly already. 'Tis yours. Arm. Do'st 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 borrow 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 Challenge. Arm. I 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, 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. 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. King. How fares your Majefty? [Exeunt Worthies. Prin. Boyet prepare, I will away to Night. King. The extream Parts of Time extreamly form That, which long Procefs of Time could not arbitrate. And And though the mourning Brow of Progeny The holy Suit which fain it would convince; 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, Thus purifies it felf, and turns to Grace. Prin. We have receiv'd your Letters, full of Love, And in our Maiden Council rated them Dum 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; Change not your Offer made in Heat of Blood: Come challenge me, challenge me by these Deserts; For the Remembrance of my Father's Death. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, Biron. And what to me, my Love? and what to me? Dum. 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. Rofa. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron, That lye within the Mercy of your Wit: To weed this Wormwood from your fruitful Brain, 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 converse With groaning Wretches; and your Task fhall be, 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 fhallow laughing Hearers give to Fools: Of |