mined to employ Costard to bear a letter to her. For this service he gave the swain his liberty and sent him on his way.

Before very long Costard was met by Lord Biron, who also employed him to deliver a sealedup letter, which he explained was for Rosaline, who might be overtaken when she came to the park to hunt on that afternoon. Costard took his guerdon and went onward, but Biron lingered under the trees and reproached himself,-he that had been love's whip, a very beadle to a humorous sigh, a critic; nay, a night-watch constable; a domineering pedant over Cupid-he to be in love! "What," quoth he, "I love! I sue! I seek a wife! a woman like a German clock, still repairing, ever out of frame, and never going aright! Nay, but to be perjured is worst of all, and among three to love the worst of all!" Then he fell to reviling his lady-love in playful bitterness, but he was past cure, for Cupid had, in very truth, in return for his neglect, imposed a plague which there was no escaping.

At the time appointed by the king, who desired to entertain his guests as best he could while still remaining true to his oath, the princess and her retinue were led abroad by one of the royal foresters to a hunt in the park; and, as Biron had directed, Costard followed the train and attempted to deliver Biron's letter to the lady Rosaline. He asked the princess, with a loutish bow, which was the head lady; and, as she said she was, he an

nounced that he had a letter from one Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline. Hereupon the princess demanded the letter, and it was handed to Boyet, who, looking at the superscription, said, "This letter is mistook. It importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta ;" for the silly swain had delivered Don Armado's letter instead of Lord Biron's. The princess commanded that the wax be broken; and the Spanish don's letter, full of hard words and bombastic phrases, was read amid peals of laughter.

Then the princess called Costard: "Thou fellow, a word: Who gave thee this letter?" The swain answered that my lord had given it to him, and that it was from my lord to my lady. "From which lord to which lady?" said the princess. "From my lord Biron, a good master of mine, to a lady of France that he called Rosaline." "Thou hast mistaken his letter," said the princess, and she and her train rode gaily away.

Strolling through the park after them came Jaquenetta and Costard, who were overtaken by two men very learned in their own conceit,namely, Holofernes, a schoolmaster, and Sir Nathaniel, a curate, with whom was Dull, the constable. Jaquenetta interrupted the pompous discourse of these two and asked the parson to be so good as to read her a letter which she held forth to him. It was given her by Costard, she said, and was sent her from Don Armatho, as she miscalled her Spanish suitor.

Sir Nathaniel, urged by Holofernes, began to read the letter aloud, which was really that of Lord Biron to Rosaline. It was in verse, and breathed a great love to that lady, calling her by many endearing names. "But, damosella virgin," asked Holofernes, in his high-flown speech, "was this directed to you?" Jaquenetta answered that it was; but upon looking at the superscription, Holofernes found the true address: "To the snowwhite hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline," and, turning to Jaquenetta, he bade her go deliver it into the hands of the king, for, seeing that Lord Biron had entered into compact with the king for three years' withdrawal from womankind, it might concern him much. Taking Costard with her, Jaquenetta thereupon hurried away, and the two pedants strolled on in fantastical converse.

After all these were gone, Biron came through the trees with a paper in his hand, much berating himself for having, in self-despite, fallen madly in love. "By the world," he muttered, "I would not care a pin if the other three were in," for this was his only hope of escape from his hard bargain. But at that moment he saw one of his vow-fellows coming forward, also with a paper in his hand. To conceal his own embarrassment, and secretly to learn, at the same time, what had happened to the king, for it was he who approached, Biron climbed into a tree and screened himself among its thick leaves. "Ah, me!" sighed the melancholy king, and Lord Biron, in his high perch,

whispered to himself, with inward satisfaction, "Shot, by Heaven!"

The king then began to read aloud a set of verses made to a lady whose beauty he placed above the sun and moon; but, alas! she would still make him weep. He was about to drop the paper, addressed to the princess, in the hope that she would find it, when he heard a footstep on the grass near to him, and stepped aside with his poem still in his hand.

Just as the king disappeared in the deep shade of the trees, Longaville came through the trunks, reading aloud to himself. Biron above, among the leaves, mocked at them both under his breath and was mightily pleased to find his forlorn hope thus coming true. As Longaville reproached himself for his faithlessness to his fellows, Biron and the king, unknown to each other, interjected their comment between his words, each after his own mood, for the king was sad at the miscarriage of his plan, but Biron, as usual, appeared to take it in a merry spirit.

Longaville now read his verses aloud, which assured the fair lady that in addressing her he did not break his vow to forswear women, as she was a goddess. His vow was earthly, but she was a heavenly love. "What fool," he said, "is not wise enough to lose an oath in order to win a paradise?"

As Longaville finished this plausible piece of logic, and was wondering how he should send the

missive to the lady it celebrated, forward came Dumain, also with a paper in his hand and also in the musing mien of a lover. Longaville stepped hastily aside when he saw his fellowcourtier, and he also in turn became an eavesdropper. Biron from his perch laughed in his sleeve at them and thought how like it was to the old infant play of "All hid," while he sat in the sky like a demi-god, knowing the secrets of all the wretched fools below him.

Dumain exclaimed, with a great sigh, "O most divine Kate!" and Biron in his glee answered, aside, "O most profound coxcomb!" Dumain

continued to call his chosen lady by all sorts of fair names, as is the wont of lovers, and Biron mocked each sentence with some outlandish simile; but the others put in now and then a word of sympathy. At last Dumain began to read the ode he had been intent upon, and all were still, for it was one of the sweetest and archest of love-songs:

III.-b

"On a day (alack the day!),

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack! my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.
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