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Coft. I told you; my Lord.

Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it?
Coft. From my Lord to my Lady.

Prin. From which Lord to which Lady?

Coft. From my Lord Berown, a good mafter of mine, To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rofaline.

Prin. Thou haft mistaken his letter. Come, Lords,


Here, fweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day*. [Exit Princefs attended


-another day.

Boyet. Who is the fhooter? who is the shooter?
Rof. Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.

Rof. Why, the that bears the bow, Finely put off.

Boyet. My Lady goes to kill horns: but if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on.

Rof. Well then, I am the fhooter.

Boyet. And who is your deer?

Ref. If we chufe by horns, yourself; come not near.

Finely put on, indeed.

Mar. You ftill wrangle with her, Boyet, and she ftrikes at the brow. Boyet. But the herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?

Rof. Shall I come upon thee with an old faying, that was a man when King Pippin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.

Rof. Thou can't not bit it, bit it, bit it;

Thou can't not bit it, my good man.

Boyet. An' I cannot, cannot, cannot ;

An' I cannot, another can.


[Exit Rof,

Coft. By my troth, most pleasant; how both did fit it.

Mar. A mark marvellous well fhot; for they both did hit it.

Boyet. A mark? O, mark but that mark! a mark, fays my Lady;
Let the mark have a prick in't; to meet at, if it may be.
Mar. Wide o'th bow-hand, i'faith, your hand is out.

Ceft. Indeed, a'muft fhoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.
Boyet. An' if my hand be out, then, belike, your hand is in.
Coft. Then will fhe get the upfhot by cleaving the pin.
Mar. Come, come, you talk greafily; your lips grow foul.
Coft. She's too hard for you at picks, Sir, challenge her to bowl.
Boyet. I fear too much rubbing; good night, my good owl,

[Exeunt all but Coftard.


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Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Sir Nathaniel.

Nath. Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the teftimony of a good confcience.

Hol. The deer was (as you know) fanguis, in blood; ripe as a pomwater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of cælo, the fky, the welkin, the heav'n; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the foil, the land, the earth.

Nath. Truly, Mafter Holofernes, the epithets are fweetly varied, like a fcholar at the leaft.

I affure you it was a buck of the first head.
Hol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

But, Sir,

Dull. 'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.

Hol. Moft barbarous intimation; yet a kind of infinuation, as it were in via, in way of explication; facere, as it were, replication; or rather, oftentare, to fhow, as it were, his inclination; after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or rathereft unconfirmed fashion, to infert again my haud credo for a deer.

Dull. I faid, the deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.

Hol. Twice fod fimplicity, bis coctus; O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed doft thou look?

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed on the dainties that are bred in 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 fenfible in the duller parts; and fuch barren plants are set before us, that we thank

Coft. By my foul, a swain; a most fimple clown!

Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!
O' my troth, moft fweet jefts, moft in-cony vulgar wit,
When it comes fo fmoothly off, fo obfcenely; as it were, so fit.
Armado o' th' one fide,- -O a moft dainty man;

To fee him walk before a ladv, and to bear her fan.

To fee him kifs his hand, and how moft fweetly he will fwear;

And his page o' t' other fide, that handful of wit:

Ab, heav'ns! it is a moft pathetical nit.

Y 2

[Exit Coftard. [Shooting within.


ful fhould be for thofe parts (which we tafte and feel, ingradare) that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indifcreet, or a fool;

So were there a patch fet on learning, to fee him in a fchool.

But omne bene, fay I; being of an old father's mind, Many can brook the weather, that love not the wind. Dull. You two are book-men; can you tell by your wit,

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

Hel. Dictynna, good-man Dull; Di&ynna, goodman Dull.

Duli. What is Dictynna?

Nath. A title to Phabe, to Luna, to the Moon. Hol. The moon was a month old, when Adam was

no more:

And rought not to five weeks, when he came to fivefcore.

Th' allufion holds in the exchange.

Dull. 'Tis truc, indeed; the collufion holds in the exchange.

Hol. God comfort thy capacity! I fay, the allufion holds in the exchange.

Dull. And I fay, the pollution holds in the exchange; for the moon is never but a month old; and I fay befide, that 'twas a pricket that the Princess kill'd.

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer; and to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess kill'd, a pricket.

Nath. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; fo it fhall pleafe you to abrogate fcurrility.

Hol. I will fomething affect the letter; for it argues facility.

The praifeful Princess pierce'd and prickt
A pretty pleafing pricket;

Some fay, a fore; but not a fore,
Till now made fore with fhooting.
The dogs did yell; put L to fore,
Then forel jumpt from thicket;


Or pricket fore, or elfe forel,
The people fall a booting.
If fore be fore, then L to fore
Makes fifty fores of forel.
Of one fore I an hundred make,
By adding but one more L.

Nath. A rare talent!

Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

Hol. This is a gift that I have, fimple, fimple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, thapes, objects, ideas, apprehenfions, motions, revolutions. These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourish'd in the womb of pia mater, and deliver'd upon the mellowing of occafion; but the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.

Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and fo may my parishioners; for their fons are well tutor'd by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you; you are a good member of the commonwealth.

Hol. Mehercle, if their fons be ingenuous, they shall want no inftruction: if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, vir fapit qui pauca loquitur; a foul feminine faluteth us.

SCENE III. Enter Jaquenetta, and Coftard.

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Jaq. God give you good morrow, Mafter Parfon * Good Mafter Parfon, be fo good as read me this letter; it was given me by Coftard, and fent me from Don Armatho; I beseech you, read it. [Nath. reads to himself. Hol. Faufte, precor, gelida quando pecus omne fub umbra.

Mafter Parfon.

Hol. Mafter Parfon, quafi Perfon. And if one fhould be pierce'd, which is the one.

Coft. Marry, Mafter Schoolmafter, he that is likeft to a hogshead. Hol. Of piercing a hogfhead, a good luftre of conceit in a turf of earth, fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a fwine: 'Tis pretty, it is well.

Jaq. Good Master, &c.


Ruminat, and fo forth. Ah, good old Mantuan*, I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice; Vinegia, Vinegia! qui non te vedi, ei non te pregia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee not, loves thee not:-ut re fol la mi fa. Under pardon, Sir, what are the contents? Or rather, as Horace fays in his: What! my foul! verfes ?

Nath. Ay, Sir, and very learned.

Hol. Let me hear a staff, a ftanza, a verfe; Lege, Domine.

Nath. If love makes me forfworn, how fhall I fwear to love?

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty


Tho' to myfelf forfworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like ofiers


Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes;

Where all thofe pleasures live, that art would comprehend:

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee fhall fuffice;

Well learned is that tongue, that well can thee commend.

All ignorant that foul, that fees thee without wonder:

Which is to me fome praise, that I thy parts admire ;

Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder;

Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire.

Celeftial as thou art, oh pardon, love, this wrong. That fings heav'n's praife with fuch an earthly tongue.

Hol. You find not the apoftrophe's, and fo mifs the accent. Let me fupervife the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratify'd; but for the elegancy, facility,

*He means Baptifta Spagnolus, furnamed Mantuanus from the place of his birth, a writer of poems, who lived towards the end of the fifteenth century.


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