Very reverend sport, truly, and done in the testimony of a good

conscience.

The deer was, as you know, _sanguis_, in blood, ripe as the pomewater,

who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of _caelo_, the sky, the

welkin, the heaven, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of

_terra_, the soil, the land, the earth.

Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a

scholar at the least. But, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first

head.

Sir Nathaniel, _haud credo_.

’Twas not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket.

Most barbarous intimation! Yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, _in

via_, in way, of explication; _facere_, as it were, replication, or

rather, _ostentare_, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his

undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather,

unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my _haud

credo_ for a deer.

I said the deer was not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket.

Twice-sod simplicity, _bis coctus!_

O, thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!

Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book.

He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink.

His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible

in the duller parts.

And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be—

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,

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

But, _omne bene_, say I, being of an old father’s mind;

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

You two are bookmen. Can you tell me by your wit

What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet?

Dictynna, goodman Dull. Dictynna, goodman Dull.

What is Dictynna?

A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.

The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,

And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.

Th’ allusion holds in the exchange.

’Tis true, indeed. The collusion holds in the exchange.

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

And I say the pollution holds in the exchange, for the moon is never

but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the

Princess killed.

Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the

deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the Princess killed

a pricket.

_Perge_, good Master Holofernes, _perge_, so it shall please you to

abrogate scurrility.

I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility.

The preyful Princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket;

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

The dogs did yell, put “l” to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket;

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

If sore be sore, then “L” to “sore” makes fifty sores o’ sorel.

Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more “L”.

A rare talent!

[_Aside_.] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

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.

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.

_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.

God give you good morrow, Master Person.

Master Person, _quasi_ pierce one. And if one should be pierced, which

is the one?

Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

Of piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth;

fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine. ’Tis pretty; it is

well.

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.

_Fauste precor, gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat_—

and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan, I may speak of thee as the

traveller doth of Venice:

_Venetia, Venetia,

Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia._

Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not.

Ay, sir, and very learned.

Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse,

_Lege, domine_.

You find not the apostrophus, and so miss the accent. Let me supervise

the canzonet. [_He takes the letter_.] 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?

Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen’s lords.

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, Berowne._ Sir

Nathaniel, this Berowne 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.

Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life.

Have with thee, my girl.

Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a

certain Father saith—

Sir, tell not me of the Father, I do fear colourable colours. But to

return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

Marvellous well for the pen.

I do dine today 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.

And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of

life.

And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [_To Dull_.] Sir, 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.