Was that the King that spurred his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

I know not, but I think it was not he.

Whoe’er he was, he showed a mounting mind.

Well, lords, today we shall have our dispatch;

On Saturday we will return to France.

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush

That we must stand and play the murderer in?

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice,

A stand where you may make “the fairest shoot”.

I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.

Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

What, what? First praise me, and again say no?

O short-lived pride! Not fair? Alack for woe!

Yes, madam, fair.

Nay, never paint me now.

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Here, good my glass, take this for telling true:

Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit.

O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.

But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill,

And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t;

If wounding, then it was to show my skill,

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.

And out of question so it is sometimes,

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part,

We bend to that the working of the heart;

As I for praise alone now seek to spill

The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill.

Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty

Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be

Lords o’er their lords?

Only for praise; and praise we may afford

To any lady that subdues a lord.

Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

The thickest and the tallest.

The thickest and the tallest. It is so, truth is truth.

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,

One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.

Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.

What’s your will, sir? What’s your will?

I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.

O, thy letter, thy letter! He’s a good friend of mine.

Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve.

Break up this capon.

I am bound to serve.

This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

We will read it, I swear.

Break the neck of the wax, and everyone give ear.

[_Reads_.] _By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that

thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than

fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have

commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most

illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate

beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say,_ “Veni, vidi,

vici,” _which to annothanize in the vulgar—O base and obscure

vulgar!_—videlicet, _He came, see, and overcame. He came, one; see,

two; overcame, three. Who came? The King. Why did he come? To see. Why

did he see? To overcome. To whom came he? To the beggar. What saw he?

The beggar. Who overcame he? The beggar. The conclusion is victory. On

whose side? The King’s. The captive is enriched. On whose side? The

beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial. On whose side? The King’s? No,

on both in one, or one in both. I am the King, for so stands the

comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I

command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I

entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? Robes. For

tittles? Titles. For thyself? Me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane

my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every

part.

Thine in the dearest design of industry,

Don Adriano de Armado.

Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar

’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey.

Submissive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?

Food for his rage, repasture for his den._

What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?

What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?

I am much deceived but I remember the style.

Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.

This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,

A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport

To the Prince and his book-mates.

Thou, fellow, a word.

Who gave thee this letter?

I told you: my lord.

To whom shouldst thou give it?

From my lord to my lady.

From which lord to which lady?

From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France that he called Rosaline.

Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.

Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?

Shall I teach you to know?

Ay, my continent of beauty.

Why, she that bears the bow.

Finely put off!

My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on!

Well, then, I am the shooter.

And who is your deer?

If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.

Finely put on indeed!

You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.

But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?

Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King

Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?

So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen

Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.

Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

An I cannot, cannot, cannot,

An I cannot, another can.

By my troth, most pleasant. How both did fit it!

A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.

A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!

Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be.

Wide o’ the bow hand! I’ faith, your hand is out.

Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.

An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

Come, come, you talk greasily, your lips grow foul.

She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir. Challenge her to bowl.

I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.

By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown!

Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!

O’ my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit,

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.

Armado, o’ the one side, O, a most dainty man!

To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!

To see him kiss his hand and how most sweetly he will swear!

And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit!

Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.