To any lady that subdues a lord.
Enter Clown [Costard].
Boyet.
Here comes a member of the commonwealth.
Cost.
God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?
Prin.
Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.
Cost.
Which is the greatest lady, the highest?
Prin.
The thickest and the tallest.
Cost.
The thickest and the tallest! it is so, truth is truth.
And your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One a’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.
Prin.
What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?
Cost.
I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.
Prin.
O, thy letter, thy letter! He’s a good friend of mine.
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve,
Break up this capon.
Boyet.
I am bound to serve.
This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.
It is writ to Jaquenetta.
Prin.
We will read it, I swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.
Boyet reads. “By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to annothanize in the vulgar—O base and obscure vulgar!—videlicet, He came, [saw], and overcame: he came, one; [saw], two; [overcame], three. Who came? the king. Why did he come? to see. Why did he see? to overcome. To whom came he? to the beggar. What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side? the [king’s]. The captive is enrich’d; on whose side? the beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial; on whose side? the king’s; no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine, in the dearest design of industry,
Don Adriano de Armado.
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;
Submissive fall his princely feet before,
And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.”
Prin.
What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?
Boyet.
I am much deceived but I remember the style.
Prin.
Else your memory is bad, going o’er it ere-while.
Boyet.
This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his book-mates.
Prin.
Thou fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter?
Cost.
I told you: my lord.
Prin.
To whom shouldst thou give it?
Cost.
From my lord to my lady.
Prin.
From which lord to which lady?
Cost.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline.
Prin.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
[To Rosaline.]
Here, sweet, put up this—’twill be thine another day.
[Exeunt Princess and Train.]
Boyet.
Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
Ros.
Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet.
Ay, my continent of beauty.
Ros.
Why, she 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!
Ros.
Well then I am the shooter.
Boyet.
And who is your deer?
Ros.
If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on indeed!
Mar.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.
Boyet.
But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?
Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippen 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.
Ros. [Sings.]
Thou