For.
Yes Madam faire.
Qu.
Nay, neuer paint me now,
Where faire is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here (good my glasse) take this for telling true:
Faire paiment for foule words, is more then due.
For.
Nothing but faire is that which you inherit.
Qu.
See, see, my beautie will be sau'd by merit.
O heresie in faire, fit for these dayes,
A giuing hand, though foule, shall haue faire praise.
But come, the Bow: Now Mercie goes to kill,
And shooting well, is then accounted ill:
Thus will I saue my credit in the shoote,
Not wounding, pittie would not let me do't:
If wounding, then it was to shew my skill,
That more for praise, then purpose meant to kill.
And out of question, so it is sometimes:
Glory growes guiltie of detested crimes,
When for Fames sake, for praise an outward part,
We bend to that, the working of the hart.
As I for praise alone now seeke to spill
The poore Deeres blood, that my heart meanes no ill.
Boy.
Do not curst wiues hold that selfe-soueraigntie
Onely for praise sake, when they striue to be
Lords ore their Lords?
Qu.
Onely for praise, and praise we may afford,
To any Lady that subdewes a Lord.
Enter Clowne.
Boy.
Here comes a member of the common-wealth.
Clo.
God dig-you-den all, pray you which is the head Lady?
Qu.
Thou shalt know her fellow, by the rest that haue no heads.
Clo.
Which is the greatest Lady, the highest?
Qu.
The thickest, and the tallest.
Clo.
The thickest, & the tallest: it is so, truth is truth.
And your waste Mistris, were as slender as my wit,
One a these Maides girdles for your waste should be fit.
Are not you the chiefe woman? You are the thickest here?
Qu.
What's your will sir? What's your will?
Clo.
I haue a Letter from Monsier Berowne,
To one Lady Rosaline.
Qu.
O thy letter, thy letter: He's a good friend of mine.
Stand a side good bearer.
Boyet, you can carue,
Breake vp this Capon.
Boyet.
I am bound to serue.
This Letter is mistooke: it importeth none here:
It is writ to Iaquenetta.
Qu.
We will read it, I sweare.
Breake the necke of the Waxe, and euery one giue eare.
Boyet reades.
BY heauen, that thou art faire, is most infallible: true that thou art beauteous, truth it selfe that thou art louely: more fairer then faire, beautifull then beautious, truer then truth it selfe: haue comiseration on thy heroicall Vassall. The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua set eie vpon the pernicious and indubitate Begger Zenelophon: and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici: Which to annothanize in the vulgar, O base and obscure vulgar; videliset, He came, See, and ouercame: hee came one; see, two; ouercame three: Who came? the King. Why did he come? to see. Why did he see? to ouercome. To whom came he? to the Begger. What saw he? the Begger. Who ouercame he? the Begger. The conclusion is victorie: On whose side? the King: the captiue is inricht: On whose side? the Beggers. The catastrophe is a Nuptiall: on whose side? the Kings: no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the King (for so stands the comparison) thou the Begger, for so witnesseth thy lowlinesse. Shall I command thy loue? I may. Shall I enforce thy loue? I could. Shall I entreate thy loue? I will. What, shalt thou exchange for ragges, roabes: for tittles titles, for thy selfe mee. Thus expecting thy reply, I prophane my lips on thy foote, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy euerie part.
Thine in the dearest designe of industrie,
Don Adriana de Armatho.
Thus dost thou heare the Nemean Lion roare,
Gainst thee thou Lambe, that standest as his pray:
Submissiue fall his princely feete before,
And he from forrage will incline to play.
But if thou striue (poore soule) what art thou then?
Foode for his rage, repasture for his den.
Qu.
What plume of feathers is hee that indited this Letter? What veine? What Wethercocke? Did you euer heare better?
Boy.
I am much deceiued, but I remember the stile.
Qu.
Else your memorie is bad, going ore it erewhile.
Boy.
This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court
A Phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his Booke-mates.
Qu.
Thou fellow, a word.
Who gaue thee this Letter?
Clow.
I told you, my Lord.
Qu.
To whom should'st thou giue it?
Clo.
From my Lord to my Lady.
Qu.
From which Lord, to which Lady?
Clo.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline.
Qu.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come Lords away.
Here sweete, put vp this, 'twill be thine another day.Exeunt.
Boy.
Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
Rosa.
Shall I teach you to know.
Boy.
I my continent of beautie.
Rosa.
Why she that beares the Bow. Finely put off.
Boy.
My Lady goes to kill hornes, but if thou marrie,
Hang me by the necke, if hornes that yeare miscarrie.
Finely put on.
Rosa.
Well then, I am the shooter.
Boy.
And who is your Deare?
Rosa.
If we choose by the hornes, your selfe come not neare. Finely put on indeede.
Maria.
You still wrangle with her Boyet, and shee strikes at the brow.
Boyet.
But she her selfe is hit lower:
Haue I hit her now.
Rosa.
Shall I come vpon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it.
Boyet.
So I may answere thee with one as old that was a woman when Queene Guinouer of Brittaine was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
