DUMAINE.
Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.
KING.
Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.
BOYET.
But is this Hector?
DUMAINE.
I think Hector was not so clean-timber’d.
LONGAVILLE.
His leg is too big for Hector’s.
DUMAINE.
More calf, certain.
BOYET.
No; he is best indued in the small.
BEROWNE.
This cannot be Hector.
DUMAINE.
He’s a god or a painter; for he makes faces.
ARMADO.
‘The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift,’—
DUMAINE.
A gilt nutmeg.
BEROWNE.
A lemon.
LONGAVILLE.
Stuck with cloves.
DUMAINE.
No, cloven.
ARMADO.
Peace!
‘The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;
A man so breath’d that certain he would fight ye,
From morn till night, out of his pavilion.
I am that flower,’—
DUMAINE.
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.
DUMAINE.
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.
PRINCESS.
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.
DUMAINE.
[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 whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.
DUMAINE.
Most rare Pompey!
BOYET.
Renowned Pompey!
BEROWNE.
Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the
Huge!
DUMAINE.
Hector trembles.
BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on!
DUMAINE.
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.
DUMAINE.
Room for the incensed Worthies!
COSTARD.
I’ll do it in my shirt.
DUMAINE.
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.
DUMAINE.
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 MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.]
MARCADE.
God save you, madam!
PRINCESS.
Welcome, Marcade;
But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.
MARCADE.
I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father—
PRINCESS.
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.
Boyet, prepare: I will away tonight.
KING.
Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay.
PRINCESS.
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