Long. Stuck with cloves. Dum. No, cloven. Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion ; A man fo breathed, that certain he would fight ye I am that flower. Dum. That mint. Long. That columbine. Arm. Sweet lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. Long. I must rather give it the rein; for it runs against Hector. Dum. Ay, and Hector's a greyhound. Arm. The fweet war-man is dead and rotten; Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the bury'd: But I will forward with my device; Sweet royalty, beftow on me the sense of hearing. Boyet. Loves he by the foot? Dum. He may not by the yard. Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal. Coft. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she 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; fhe's quick; the child brags in her belly already: 'tis yours. Arm. Doft thou infamonize me among potentates? thou fhalt die. Coft. Then fhall Hector be whipp'd for Jaquenetta, 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 Atès, more Atès; stir 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 fword: I pray you, let me borrow my arms again. Dum. Room for the incenfed worthies. Coft. I'll do't in my shirt. Dum. Moft refolute Pompey! Moth. Mafter, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not fee Pompey is uncafing for the combat? what mean you? you will lose your reputation. in Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me, I will not combat my fhirt. Dum. You may not deny it; Pompey hath made the challenge. 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 fhirt; I go woolward for penance. Boyet. True; and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of linen; fince when, I'll be fworn, he wore none, but a difhclout of Jaquenetta's; and that he wears next his heart for a favour. SCENE X. Enter Macard. Mac. God fave you, madam! Prin. Welcome, Macard, but that thou interruptest our merriment. Mac. I'm 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. Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath; I have seen the day of right through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a foldier. King. How fares your majesty? Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. [Exeunt worthies. King. Madam, not fo; I do befeech you, stay. Prin. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours; and entreat, Out of a new-fad foul, that you vouchfafe In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide, King. The extreme part of time extremely forms And often, at his very loose, decides That which long process could not arbitrate. The holy fuit which fain it would convince; From what it purpos'd: fince to wail friends lost As to rejoice at friends but newly found. Prin. I understand you not, my griefs are double. Biron. Honeft plain words beft pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the king. For your fair fakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies, And And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous, All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain, To every varied object in his glance; To those that make us both, fair ladies, you; And even that falfhood, in itself a fin, Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace. Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion like a merriment. Dum. Our letters, madam, fhow'd much more than jest. Long. So did our looks. Rof. We did not quote them fo. King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. Prin. A time, methinks, too short, To make a world-without-end bargain in; No, no, my lord, your grace is perjur'd much, VOL. II. X You You will do ought, this fhall you do for me; Change not your offer made in heat of blood; Come challenge me, challenge by these deserts; For the remembrance of my father's death. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. Dum. O, shall I fay, I thank you, gentle wife? Mar. |