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Boyet. And wherefore not ships ?
No theep, (sweet lamb) unless we feed on your lips.
Mar. You sheep, and I pasture; Thall that finish the

Boyet. So you grant pasture for me.
Mar. Not so, gentle beast ;
My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet. Belonging to whom?
Mar. To my fortunes and me.
Prin. Good wits will be jangling ; but, gentles,

This civil war of wits were much better us'd
On Navarre and his book-men; for here'tis abus'd.

Boyet. If my observation, (which very feldom lics)
By the heart's still rhetorick, disclosed with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected,

Prin. With what ?
Boyet. With that which we lovers intitle affected.
Prin. Your reason ?

Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire
To the Court of his eye, peeping thorough defire:
His heart, like an agat with your print impressed,
Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed :
His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
Did ftumble with hafte in his eye-light to be:
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest of fair ;
Methought, all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some Prince to buy ;
Who tendring their own worth, from whence they were

Did point out to buy them, along as you paft.
His face's own margent did quote such amazes,
That all eyes faw his eyes inchanted with gazes :
I'll give you Aquitain, and all that is his,
An' you give him for my fake but one loving kiss.

Prin. Come, to our pavilion : Boyet is dispos'd
Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his eye

hath disclosd;


Vol. II.

I only I only have made a mouth of his

eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. Ros. Thou art an old love-morger, and speakest

skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of

him. Ros. Then was Venus like her mother, for her father

is but grim. Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ? Mar. No. Boyet. What then, do you see? Rol. Ay, our way to be gone. Boyet. You are too hard for me. (8) [Exeunt.

SCENE, the Park; near the Palace.

Enter Armado and Moth.

Arm. 7 Arble, child; make paflionate my sense of

hearing. Moth. Concolinel

[Singing, Arm. Sweet Air! go, tenderness of years ; take this key, give inlargement to the swain ; bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love. Moth. Master, will


love with a French brawl?

Arm. How mean'st thou, brawling in French?

(8) Boyet. You are too hard for me.] Here, in all the Books, the ad Ait is made to end: but in my Opinion very mistakenly. I have ventur'd to vary the Regulation of the four last A&s from the printed Copies, for these Reasons. Hitherto, the 2d Ad has been of the Extent of 7 Pages; the 3d but of s; and the sth of no less than 29. And this Disproportion of Length has crouded too many locidents into some Acts, and left the others quite barren. I have now reduced them into a much better Equality; and distributed the Bulipess likewise, (such as it is,) into a more uniform Cat.


Motb. No, my compleat master (9); but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids ; figh a note and fing a note; sometimes through the throat, as if you swallow'd love with singing love; sometimes through the nose, as if you snuft up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like, o'er the shop of your eyes ; with your arms croft on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbet on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away: these are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches that would be betray'd without these, and make the 'men of note (10): do you note men, that are most affected to there? Arm. How hast thou purchas'd this experience ? Moth. By my pen of observation. Arm. But 0, but O.. Moth. The hobby-horse is forgot. (11)


6) Moth. No, my compleat Master, &c.] This whole Speech has been so terribly confused in the Pointing, through all the Editions hitherto, that not the least glimmering of Sense was to be pick’d out of it. As I have regulated the Passage, I think, Moth delivers both good Sense and good Humour,

(10) these betray nice Wenches, that would be betray'd without there, and make them Men of Note.) Thus all the Editors, with a Sagacity worthy of Wonder. But who will ever believe, that the odd Attitudes and Affectations of Lovers, by which they beiray young Wenches, should have power to make those young Wenches Men of Note? This is a Transformation, which, i dare say, the Poet never thought of. His Meaning is, that they not only inveigle the young Girls, but make the Men taken notice of too, who affect them. (11) Arm. But 0, but o

Moth. The Hobby-horse is forgot.) The Humour of this Reply of Moth's to Armado, who is lighing in Love, cannot be taken without a little Explanation: nor why there Tould be any room for making such a Reply. In the Rites formerly obsery'd for the Celebration of Mayıday, besides those now

us'd go.

1 2

Arm. Call'st thou my love hobby-horse?

Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love, perhaps, a hackney : but have you forgot your love?

Arm. Almost I had.
Moth. Negligent student, learn her by heart.
Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy.
Moth. And out of heart, master · all those three I

will prove.

Arm. What wilt thou prove?

Moth. A man, if I live: And this by, in, and out of, upon the instant: by heart you love her, becaule your heart cannot come by her: in heart


love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot en

joy her.

Arm. I am all these three.

Moth. And three times as much more; and yet nothing at all.

Årm. Fetch hither the swain, he muft carry me a letter.

Moth. A message well sympathiz'd; a horse to be embassador for an ass.

Arm. Ha, ha; what say'st thou ?

Moth. Marry, Sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gated : but I

us'd of hanging a Pole with Garlands, and dancing round it, a Boy was dreft up representing Maid Marian; another, like a Fryar; and another rode on a Hobby-horse, with Bells jingling, and painted Streamers. After the Reformation took place, and Precisians multiplied, these latter Rites were look'd upon to favour of Paganism; and then Maid Marian, the Fryar, and the poor Hobby-horse were turn'd out of the Games. Some, who were not so wisely precise, but regretted the Disuse of the Hobby-horje, no doubt, satiriz'd this Suspicion of idolatry, and archly wrote the Evitaph above alluded to. Now Moth, hearing Armado groan ridiculously, and cry out, But oh! but ob! hamourousy pieces out his Exclamation with the Sequel of this Epitaph: which is putting his Master's Love Passion, and The Loss of the Hobby-horse, on a Footing.


is but short; away.

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Arm. The

Moth. As swift as lead, Sir.

Árm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious ?
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull and flow?

Moth. Minimè, honest master ; or rather, master, no.
Arm. I say, lead is slow.

Moth. You are too swift, Sir, to say so.
Is that lead ilow, Sir, which is fir'd from a gun?

Arm. Sweet smoak of rhetorick!
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:
I shoot thee at the swain.
Moth. Thump then, and I fly.

[Exit. Arm. A moft acute Juvenile, voluble and free of

grace ; By thy favcur, sweet welkin, I must figh in thy face. Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. "My herald is return'd.

Re-enter Moth and Costard.
Moth. A wonder, master, here's a Coftard broken in

a shin.

Arm. Some enigma, fome riddle; come, thy l'envoy

begin. Coff. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the male, sir. Sir, plantan, a plain plantan; no l'envoy, no l'envoy, or ialve, Sir, but plantan.

Arm. By vertue, thou enforceft laughter; thy filly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: pardon me, my stars! doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word l'envoy for a falve?

Moth. Doth the wise think them other is not l'en

voy a salve ?

Arm. No, page, it is an epilogue or discourse, to

make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it. Now will I begin your moral, and do you

follow with my l'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three.


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