Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them?
Hol. Joshua, yourself; myself; and this gallant gentleman, Judas Machabeus; this swain (because of his great limb or joint) shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules.
Arm. Pardon, sir, error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb, he is not so big as the end of his club.
Hol. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority; his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.
Moth. An excellent device! so if any of the audience hiss, you may cry, “Well done, Hercules, now thou crushest the snake!” That is the way to make an offense gracious, though few have the grace to do it.
Arm. For the rest of the Worthies?
Hol. I will play three myself.
Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman!
Arm. Shall I tell you a thing?
Hol. We attend.
Arm. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you follow.
Hol. Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while.
Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir.
Hol. [Allons!] we will employ thee.
Dull.
I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play
On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.
Hol.
Most dull, honest Dull! to our sport; away!
Exeunt.
¶
[Scene II]
Enter the Ladies: [the Princess, Maria, Katherine, and Rosaline].
Prin.
Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,
If fairings come thus plentifully in.
A lady wall’d about with diamonds!
Look you what I have from the loving King.
Ros.
Madam, came nothing else along with that?
Prin.
Nothing but this? Yes, as much love in rhyme
As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper,
Writ a’ both sides the leaf, margent and all,
That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.
Ros.
That was the way to make his godhead wax,
For he hath been five thousand year a boy.
Kath.
Ay, and a shrowd unhappy gallows too.
Ros.
You’ll ne’er be friends with him, ’a kill’d your sister.
Kath.
He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy,
And so she died. Had she been light, like you,
Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,
She might ’a’ been [a] grandam ere she died.
And so may you; for a light heart lives long.
Ros.
What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?
Kath.
A light condition in a beauty dark.
Ros.
We need more light to find your meaning out.
Kath.
You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff;
Therefore I’ll darkly end the argument.
Ros.
Look what you do, you do it still i’ th’ dark.
Kath.
So do not you, for you are a light wench.
Ros.
Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light.
Kath.
You weigh me not? O, that’s you care not for me.
Ros.
Great reason: for past care is still past cure.
Prin.
Well bandied both, a set of wit well played.
But, Rosaline, you have a favor too?
Who sent it? and what is it?
Ros.
I would you knew.
And if my face were but as fair as yours,
My favor were as great: be witness this.
Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne;
The numbers true, and, were the numb’ring too,
I were the fairest goddess on the ground.
I am compar’d to twenty thousand fairs.
O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter!
Prin.
Any thing like?
Ros.
Much in the letters, nothing in the praise.
Prin.
Beauteous as ink—a good conclusion.
Kath.
Fair as a text B in a copy-book.
Ros.
Ware pencils [ho]! let me not die your debtor,
My red dominical, my golden letter:
O that your face were not so full of O’s!
Prin.
A pox of that jest! and I beshrow all shrows.
But, Katherine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?
Kath.
Madam, this glove.
Prin.
Did he not send you twain?
Kath.
Yes, madam, and moreover
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover.
A huge translation of hypocrisy,
Vildly compiled, profound simplicity.
Mar.
This,