The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

KING. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.

BOYET. But is this Hector?

DUMAIN. I think Hector was not so clean-timber’d.

LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector’s.

DUMAIN. More calf, certain.

BOYET. No; he is best indued in the small.

BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector.

DUMAIN. He’s a god or a painter, for he makes faces.

ARMADO. The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift-DUMAIN. A gilt nutmeg.

BEROWNE. A lemon.

LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves.

DUMAIN. No, cloven.

ARMADO. Peace!

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight ye, From morn till night out of his pavilion.

I am that flower—

DUMAIN. That mint.

LONGAVILLE. That columbine.

ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

DUMAIN. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.

[BEROWNE steps forth, and speaks to COSTARD]

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.

ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper.

BOYET. [Aside to DUMAIN] Loves her by the foot.

DUMAIN. [Aside to BOYET] He may not by the yard.

ARMADO. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal-COSTARD. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way.

ARMADO. What meanest thou?

COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away. She’s quick; the child brags in her belly already; ‘tis yours.

ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.

COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hang’d for Pompey that is dead by him.

DUMAIN. Most rare Pompey!

BOYET. Renowned Pompey!

BEROWNE. Greater than Great! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge!

DUMAIN. Hector trembles.

BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on!

DUMAIN. Hector will challenge him.

BEROWNE. Ay, if ‘a have no more man’s blood in his belly than will sup a flea.

ARMADO. By the North Pole, I do challenge thee.

COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a Northern man; I’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.

DUMAIN. Room for the incensed Worthies!

COSTARD. I’ll do it in my shirt.

DUMAIN. Most resolute Pompey!

MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.

ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

DUMAIN. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.

ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

BEROWNE. What reason have you for ‘t?

ARMADO. The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that ‘a wears next his heart for a favour.

Enter as messenger, MONSIEUR MARCADE

MARCADE. God save you, madam!

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Welcome, Marcade;

But that thou interruptest our merriment.

MARCADE. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father-PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Dead, for my life!

MARCADE. Even so; my tale is told.

BEROWNE. WOrthies away; the scene begins to cloud.

ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. Exeunt WORTHIES

KING. How fares your Majesty?

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Boyet, prepare; I will away tonight.

KING. Madam, not so; I do beseech you stay.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If overboldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath-your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord.

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.

Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed; And often at his very loose decides

That which long process could not arbitrate.

And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purpos’d; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I understand you not; my griefs are double.

BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King.

For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play’d foul play with our oaths; your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous, As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain; Form’d by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance; Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if in your heavenly eyes Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false, By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both-fair ladies, you; And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We have receiv’d your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time; But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment.

DUMAIN. Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

LONGAVILLE. So did our looks.

ROSALINE. We did not quote them so.

KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in.

No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur’d much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this, If for my love, as there is no such cause, You will do aught-this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage,

Remote from all the pleasures of the world; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning.

If this austere insociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood, If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love, Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts; And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut My woeful self up in a mournful 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 flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence hermit then, my heart is in thy breast.

BEROWNE. And what to me, my love? and what to me?

ROSALINE. You must he purged too, your sins are rack’d; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick.

DUMAIN. But what to me, my love? but what to me?

A wife?

KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three.

DUMAIN. O, shall I say I thank you, gentle wife?

KATHARINE. No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day I’ll mark no words that smooth-fac’d wooers say.

Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.

DUMAIN. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

LONGAVILLE. What says Maria?

MARIA. At the twelvemonth’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

LONGAVILLE. I’ll stay with patience; but the time is long.

MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young.

BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me; Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there.

Impose some service on me for thy love.

ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw 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 estates 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 shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be; it is impossible;

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

ROSALINE. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it; then, if sickly ears, Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal.

But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation.

BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. [ To the King] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.

KING. No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play: Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy.

KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth an’ a day, And then ‘twill end.

BEROWNE. That’s too long for a play.

Re-enter ARMADO

ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me—

PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was not that not Hector?

DUMAIN. The worthy knight of Troy.

ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vow’d to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the Owl and the Cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show.

KING. Call