Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the huge!

Dum. Hector trembles.

Biron. Pompey is mov'd; more Atès, more Atès; ftir them on, itir 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 flafh; 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 it in my

fhirt.

Dum. Moft refolute Pompey!

Moth. Mafter, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do ye not fee, Pompey is uncafing for the combat? What mean you ? you will lofe your reputation.

Arm. Gentlemen, and foldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

Dum. You may not deny it, Pompey hath made the challenge.

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will,
Biron. What reafon 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 injoin'd him in Rome for "want of linen; fince when, I'll be fworn, he wore "none but a difh-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that he wears next his heart for a favour."

66

SCENE

X.

Enter Macard.

Mac. God fave you, Madam!

Prin. Welcome, Macard, but that thou interrupteft our merriment.

Mac. I'm forry, Madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your fatherPrin. Dead! for my life.

Mac. Even fo, my tale is told.

Biron. Worthies, away; the scene begins to cloud. Arm. Formy own part, I breathe free breath; I have

feen

feen the day of right through the little hole of difcretion, and I will right myself like a foldier.

King. How fares your Majesty?

[Exeunt worthies.

Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night.
King. Madam, not fo; I do befeech you, stay.
Prin. Prepare, I fay.-I thank you, gracious Lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and intreat,
Out of a new-fad foul, that you vouchfafe
In your rich wisdom to excufe, or hide,
The liberal oppofition of our spirits;
If over-boldly we have borne ourselves
In the converfe of breath, your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy Lord;
An heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue :
Excufe me fo, coming fo fhort of thanks,
For my great fuit so easily obtain'd.

King. The extreme part of time extremely forms
All caufes to the purpofe of his fpeed;
And often, at his very loofe, decides

That which long process could not arbitrate.
And though the mourning row of progeny
Forbid the fmiling courtely of love,

The holy fuit which fain it would convince;
Yet fince love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of forrow juftle it

From what it purpos'd: fince to wail friends loft,
Is not by much fo wholefome, profitable,

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin. I understand you not, my griefs are double. Biron. Honeft plain words best pierce the ear of grief;

And by thefe badges understand the King,

For your fair fakes have we neglected time,

Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, Ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to th' oppofed end of our intents;
And what in us hath feem'd ridiculous,
As love is full of unbefitting ftrains,
All wanton as a child, fkipping in vain,
Form'd by the eye, and therefore like the eye,
Full of straying shapes, of habits, and of forms,

Varying

Varying in fubjects as the eye doth rowl,
To every varied object in his glance;
Which party-coated prefence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heav'nly eyes,
Have mifbecom'd our oaths and gravities;
Thofe heav'nly eyes, that look into thefe faults,
Suggested us to make them: therefore, Ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewife yours. We to ourfelves prove false,
By being once falfe, for ever to be true

To thofe that makes us both; fair Ladies, you:
And even that falfehood, in itself a fin,
Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace.

Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love;
Your favours, the embaffadors of love:
And in our maiden council rated them
At courtship, pleasant jeft, and courtefy;
As bumbaft, and as lining to the time:

But more devout than this, (fave our refpects),
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.

Dum. Our letters, Madam, fhew'd much more than jeft.

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. Á time, methinks, too fhort,

To make a world-without-end bargain in ;
No, no, my Lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltinefs; and therefore, this-
If for my love (as there is no fuch cause)
You will do aught, this fhall you do for me;
Your oath I will not truft; but go with speed
To fome forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay, until the twelve celeftial figns
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this auftere infociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frofts, and fafts, hard lodging, and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy bloffoms of your love,

But

But that it bear this trial, and last love;

Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come challenge me; challenge me, by thefe deferts;
And by this virgin palm, now kiffing thine,

I will be thine; and till that inftant fhut
My woful felf up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation,

For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other's heart.

King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To fetter up these powers of mine with reft;
The fudden hand of death clofe up mine eye!

Hence, ever then, my heart is in thy breaft. [* Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to me? Rof. You must be purged too, you fins are rank, You are attaint with fault and perjury; Therefore if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth fhall you fpend, and never reft, But feek the weary beds of people fick.]

Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to me? Cath. A wife! a beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

Dum. O, fhall I fay, I thank you, gentle wife? Cath. Not fo, my Lord, a twelvemonth and a day, I'll mark no words that fmooth-face'd wooers fay. Come, when the King doth to my Lady come; Then if I have much love, I'll give you fome. Dum. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. Cath. Yet fwear not, left ye be forfworn again. Long. What fays Maria?

Mar. At the twelvemonth's end,

I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
Long. I'll ftay with patience; but the time is long.
Mar. The liker you; few taller are fo young.
Biron. Studies my Lady? Mitress, look on me,
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble fuit attends thy anfwer there;
Impofe fome fervice on me for my love.

* Thefe fix lines are misplaced, and ought to be expunged, as being the author's first draught only, of what he afterwards improved and made more perfect. Mr. Warburton,

Rof

Ref. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,
Before I faw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts;
Which you on all eftates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
(Without the which I am not to be won);
You fhall this twelve-month term from day to day
Visit the speechlefs fick, and fill converte
With groaning wretches; and your task fhall be,.
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T'enforce the pained impotent to fmile.

Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impoffible:

Mirth cannot move a foul in agony.

Rof. Why, that's the way to choak a gibing fpirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which fhallow laughing hearers give to fools:
A jeft's profperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue:
Of him that makes it: then, if fickly ears,

Deaft with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle fcorns; continue then,
And I will have you, and that fault withal:
But if they will not, throw away that spirit;
And I fhall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your reformation..

Biron. A twelvemonth? well; befal, what will befal,
I'll jeft a twelvemonth in an hofpital..
Prin. Ay, fweet my Lord, and fo I take my leave,
[To the King.
King. No, Madam; we will bring you on your

way.

Biron. Our wooing-doth not end like an old play; Jack hath not Jill; thefe ladies' courtesy

Might well have made our fport a comedy.

King. Come, Sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,

And then 'twill end.

Biren. That's too long for a play.

Enter.