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Dum. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you
[Exit. Long. I beseech you a word; What is she in
the white ? Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in Long. Perchance, light in the light: I desire her
name. Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to desire
that, were a shame.
Boyet. Good sir, be not offended :
Long. Nay, my choler is ended.
[Exit Biron.- Ladies unmask. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap Not a word with him but a jest. Boyet.
And every jest but a word. Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his
word. Boyet. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to
board. Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry!
And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. Mar. You sheep, and I pasture; Shall that
finish the jest? Boyet. So you grant pasture for me.
[Offering to kiss her. Mar.
Not so, gentle beast; My lips are no common, though several 6 they be.
Boyet. Belonging to whom?
To my fortunes and me. Prin. Good wits will be jangling: but, gentles,
agree : The civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men; for here 'tis abused.
Boyet. If my observation, (which very seldom lies,) By the heart's still rhetorick, disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected,
Prin. With what
were glass’d, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d. 6 A quibble, several signified uninclosed lands.
Ꭰ Ꭰ ;
His face's own margent did quote such amazes,
Prin. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd
hath disclos'd: I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. Ros. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st
skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns
news of him. Ros. Then was Venus like her mother; for her
father is but grim. Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?
What then, do you see? Ros. Ay, our way to be gone. Boyet.
You are too hard for me.
SCENE I. - Another part of the same.
Enter ARMADO and Moth.
Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense
of hearing. Moth. Concolinel
(Singing. Arm. Sweet air!-Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain,
bring him festinately? hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love.
Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? 8
Arm. How mean'st thou ? brawling in French ?
Moth. No, my complete master : but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary9 to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eye-lids ; sigh a note, and sing a note; sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love; sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouselike o'er the shop of your eyes : with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away: These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches - that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note, (do you '
note, men ?) that most are affected to these.
Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience?
Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love?
Arm. Almost I had.
8 A kind of dance.
I will prove.
Moth. And out of heart, master : all those three Arm. What wilt thou prove? Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: By heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her: in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her.
Arm. I am all these three.
Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.
Arm. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter.
Moth. A message well sympathised; a horse to be ambassador for an ass!
Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou ?
Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited : But I go.
Arm. The way is but short; away.
Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious ?
Moth. Minimè, honest master; or rather, master, Arm. I say, lead is slow.
Moth. You are too swift!, sir, to say so; Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun?
Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetorick! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's
he: I shoot thee at the swain. Moth.
Thump then, and I flee.
[Erit. 1 Quick, ready