Jaq. Fair weather after you! [Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta. Arm. Villain, thou fhalt faft for thy offence, ere thou be pardoned. Coft. Well, Sir, I hope, when I do it, I fall do it on a full ftomach. Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punish'd. Coft. I am more bound to you, than your followers; for they are but lightly rewarded. Arm. Take away this villain, fhut him up. Moth. Come, you tranfgreffing flave, away. Coft. Let me not be pent up, Sir; I will faft, being loofe. Moth. No, Sir, that were faft and loofe; thou shalt to prifon. Coft. Well, if ever I do fee the merry days of defolation that I have seen, fome fhall fee Moth. What fhall fome fee? upon. Coft. Nay, nothing, Mifter Moth, but what they look It is not for prifoners to be filent in their words, and therefore I will fay nothing; I thank God, I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. [Exeunt Moth and Coftard. Arm. I do affect the very ground (which is bafe) where her fhoe (which is bafer) guided by her foot (which is bafett) doth tread. I fhall be forfworn, which is a great argument of falfehood, if I love. And how can that be true love, which is falfely attempted? Love is a familiar, love is a devil: there is no evil angel but... love; yet Samfon was fo tempted, and he had an excellent ftrength; yet was Solomon fo feduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's but-fhaft is too hard for Her cules's club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier; the first and fecond caufe will not ferve my turn; the Paffado he refpects not, the Duello he regards not; his difgrace is to be call'd boy; but his glory is to fubdue men. Adieu, valour! ruft, 1apier! be ftill, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Affift me, fome extemporal god of rhyme, for I am fure I fhall turn fonneteer. Devife wit, write pen, for 1 am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit. ACT ACT II. SCENE I. Before the King of Navarre's palace. Enter the Princess of France, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine, Boyet, Lords, and other attendants. Boyet. Now, Madam, fummon up your deareft fpirits; Confider, whom the King your father fends; Of all perfections that a man may owe, Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, Like humble-vifag'd fuitors, his high will. Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go. That are vow-fellows with this virtuous King? Prin. Know ye the man? [Exit. Mar. I knew him, Madam, at a marriage-feast, Prin. Some merry-mocking Lord, belike; is't fo? Mar. They fay so most, that most his humours know. Prin. Such fhort-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? Cath. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love, for virtue lov'd. Most power to do most harm, leaft knowing ill; And shape to win grace, though he had no wit. And much too little of that good I faw, Rof. Another of these students at that time never spent an hour's talk withal, His eye begets occafion for his wit; And And younger hearings are quite ravished; So fweet and voluble is his discourse. Prin. God bless my ladies, are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With fuch bedecking ornaments of praife! Mar. Here comes Boyet. Enter Boyet. Prin. Now, what admittance, Lord? Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach; Were all addrefs'd to meet you, gentle Lady, To let you enter his unpeopled house. SCENE II. Enter the King, Longaville, Dumain, Biron, and at- King. Fair Princefs, welcome to the court of Navarre. Prin. Fair I give you back again; and welcome I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours; and welcome to the wide fields, too bafe to be mine. King. You fhall be welcome, Madam, to my court. Prin. Were my Lord fo, his ignorance were wise, But pardon me, I am too fudden bold: To teach a teacher ill befeemeth me. Vouchfafe Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, King. Madam, I will, if fuddenly I may. Rof. How needlefs was it then to ask the question? Ref. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with fuch queftions. Biron Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. Rof. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. Biron. What time o' day? Rof. The hour that fools should ask. Biron. Now fair befal your mafk! King. Madam, your father here doth intimate But fay, that he, or we, as neither have Which we much rather had depart withal, VOL. II. Dear |