(Which we of taste and feeling are) for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,

Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a hooting.

If sore be sore, then I to sore makes fifty sores; O sore l!

So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school:

Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding bul one more l.

The allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull. 'Tis true indeed: the collusion holds in the exchange.

Hol. God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull. And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside, that 'twas a pricket that the princess kill'd.

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? and, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the princess kill'd, a pricket.

Nath. Perge, good master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

Hol. I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.

The preyful princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket;

Some say, a sore; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting.

The dogs did yell; put I to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket;

Nath. A rare talent!

Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

Hol. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.

Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth.

Hol. Mehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction: if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit, qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

Enter JAQUENETTA and CoSTARD.

Jaq. God give you good morrow, master person. Hol. Master person, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one?

Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

Hol. Of piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine: 'tis pretty; it is well.

Jaq. Good master parson, be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.

Hol. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbrá

Ruminat, and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice:

- Venegia, Venegia,

Chi non te vede, non te pregia.

Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. - Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or, rather, as Horace says in his-What, my soul, verses?

Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned.

Hol. Let me hear a staff, a stanza, a verse: lege, domine.

Nath. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove;

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live, that art would comprehend:

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue, that well can thee commend;

All ignorant that soul, that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts

admire.

Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire. Celestial, as thou art, O! pardon, love, this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly

tongue!

Hol. You find not the apostrophes, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But damosella, virgin, was this directed to you?

Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen's lords.

Hol. I will overglance the superscript. "To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline." I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: "Your ladyship's, in all desired employment, Biron." Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried.---Trip and go, my sweet : deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty: adieu.

Jaq. Good Costard, go with me.---Sir, God save your life! Cost. Have with thee, my girl.

[Exeunt Cost. and JAQ. Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saithHol. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But, to return to the verses: did they please you, sir Nathaniel?

Nath. Marvellous well for the pen.

Hol. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where if before repast it shall please

you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society.

Nath. And thank you too; for society (saith the text) is the happiness of life.

Hol. And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. Sir,-[To DULL]-I do invite you too: you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Another part of the Same.
Enter BIRON, with a paper.

Biron. The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitch'd a toil; I am toiling in a pitch-pitch that defiles. Defile? a foul word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so, they say, the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool. Well proved, wit! By the lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep. Well proved again o' my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me: i'faith, I will not. O! but her eye, by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her! yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan!

[Gets up into a tree.

Enter the KING, with a paper.

King. Ay me!

Biron. [Aside.] Shot, by heaven!-Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thump'd him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap.-In faith, secrets!

King. [Reads.] So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows: Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light; Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep: No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show: But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel! No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper. Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? [Steps aside.

Enter LONGAVille, with a paper.

[Aside.] What, Longaville! and reading? listen,

ear.

Biron. [Aside.] Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace, being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is: Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,

Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then, it is no fault of mine. me broke, what fool is not so wise,

If by

To lose an oath, to win a paradise?

Biron. [Aside.] This is the liver vein, which makes flesh a deity;

A green goose, a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.

Biron. [Aside.] A fever in your blood? why, then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision! Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. Biron. [Aside.] Once more I'll mark how love

can vary wit.

Dum. 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:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I send, and something else more plain,
That shall express my true love's fasting pain.
O, would the King, Biron, and Longaville,
Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,
Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note;
For none offend, where all alike do dote.

Long. [Advancing.] Dumaine, thy love is far

from charity,

way.

Enter DUMAINE, with a paper.

stay.

Long. By whom shall I send this? - Company! [Steps aside. Biron. [Aside.] All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,

And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill! O heavens! I have my wish: Dumaine transform'd? four woodcocks in a dish! Dum. O most divine Kate!

Biron. [Aside.] O most profane coxcomb! Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye! Biron. [Aside.] By earth, she is not :-corporal;

there you lie.

Dum. O, that I had my wish! Long.

King. [Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such;

You chide at him, offending twice as much :
You do not love Maria; Longaville
Did never sonnet for her sake compile,
Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart
His loving bosom, to keep down his heart.
I have been closely shrouded in this bush,
And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush.
I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion,
Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion :
Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes:
You would for paradise break faith and troth;
[TO LONGAVILLE.

And Jove for your love would infringe an oath.
[TO DUMAINE.
What will Biron say, when that he shall hear
Faith infringed, which such zeal did swear!
How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!
How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it!
For all the wealth that ever I did see,
I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.-
[Descends from the tree.

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me:
Good heart! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove

Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears:
You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing:
Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.
But are you not asham'd? nay, are you not,
All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?
You found his mote; the king your mote did see;
But I a beam do find in each of three.

O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!
O me! with what strict patience have I sat,
To see a king transformed to a gnat!
To see great Hercules whipping a gig,
And profound Solomon to tune a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!
Where lies thy grief! O! tell me, good Dumaine:
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain ?
And where my liege's? all about the breast :-
A caudle, ho!

King. Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?

Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd to you: I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in; I am betray'd, by keeping company. With men, like men of strange inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme? Or groan for love? or spend a minute's time In pruning me? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb?

King.

Soft! Whither away so fast?

A true man, or a thief, that gallops so?
Biron. I post from love; good lover, let me go.

Enter JAQUENETTA and CoSTARD.

Jaq. God bless the king!
King.

Hence, sirs; away!

Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace.

As true we are, as flesh and blood can be : The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree : We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn.

King. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine?

Biron. Did they? quoth you. Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,
At the first opening of the gorgeous east,
Bows not his vassal head; and, stricken blind,
Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?
What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty?

King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee

now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon,
She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I no Biron.
O! but for my love, day would turn to night.

Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek; Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,— Fie, painted rhetoric! O! she needs it not:

To things of sale a seller's praise belongs;

4

Cost. Some certain treason.

King. Where had'st thou it?
Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

King. How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it?

Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it?

Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it.

Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name.
[Picking up the pieces.
Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead!-[To Cos-
TARD]-you were born to do me shame.-

Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.
King. What?
Biron. That you three fools lack'd me, fool, to
make up the mess.

He, he, and you, and you my liege, and I,
Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.
O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.
Dum. Now the number is even.

And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.
O! 'tis the sun, that maketh all things shine !
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
A wife of such wood were felicity.

O! who can give an oath? where is a book?
That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,
If that she learn not of her eye to look:
No face is fair, that is not full so black.
King. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell.
The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night;
And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.
Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of

light.

O! if in black my lady's brows be deck'd,
It mourns, that painting, and usurping hair,
Should ravish doters with a false aspect;
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favour turns the fashion of the days;

For native blood is counted painting now,
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.
Dum. To look like her are chimney-sweepers

black.

Long. And since her time are colliers counted bright.

King. And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack.

Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be wash'd away.