Biron. By heaven, all dry beaten with pure fcoff.-King. Farewel, mad wenches, you have fimple wits. [Exeunt King and Lords. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits fo wondred at?

Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puft out. Rofa. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly poor flout: Will they not (think you) hang themfelves to-night? Or ever, but in vizors, fhew their faces? This pert Biron was out of count'nance quite. Rofa. O! they were all in lamentable cafes. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. Prin. Biron did fwear himself out of all fuit. Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his fword: No, point, quoth I; my fervant ftrait was mute. Cath. Lord Longaville faid, I came o'er his heart; And, trow you, what he call'd me! Prin. Qualm, perhaps.

Cath. Yes, in good faith.

Prin. Go, fick nefs as thou art!

Rofa. Well, better wits have worn plain ftatute caps.
But will you hear? the King is my love fworn.
Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
Cath. And Longaville was for my fervice born.
Mar. Dumain is mine, as fure as bark on tree.
Boyet. Madam, and pretty miftreffes, give ear:
Immediately they will again be here

In their own fhapes; for it can never be,
They will digeft this harsh indignity.

Prin. Will they return?

Boyet. They will, they will, God knows;

And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: 'Therefore change favours, and when they repair, Blow like fweet rofes in this fummer air.

Prin. How blow? how blow? speak to be understood. Boyet. Fair Ladies, mafkt, are roses in their bud; (46)

(46) Fair Ladies mafkt are rofes in the bud :

Difmafkt, their damask fweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or rofes blown.]

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Or

As

Or angel-veiling clouds: are roses blown,
Difmafkt, their damafk fweet commixture fhewn.
Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! what shall we do,
If they return in their own fhapes to woo?

Rof. Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,
Let's mock them ftill, as well known, as difguis'd;
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Difguis'd, like Mufcovites, in fhapeless gear;
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their fhallow fhows, and prologue vildly pen'd,
And their rough carriage fo ridiculous,
Should be prefented at our tent to us.

Boyet. Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er the land. [Exeunt.

ACT

V.

SCENE, before the Princefs's Pavilion.

Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain, in their own habits; Boyet, meeting them.

KING.

Air Sir, God fave you. Where's the Princess?
Boyet. Gone to her tent.

Pleafe it your Majefty, command me any fervice to her?
King. That fhe vouchfafe me audience for one word.
Boyet. I will; and fo will she, I know, my Lord. [Exit.
Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas;
And utters it again, when Jove doth please:

As thefe lines ftand in all the editions, there is not only an Anticlimax with a vengeance; but fuch a jumble, that makes the whole, I think, ftark nonfenfe. I have ventur'd at a tranfpofition of the 2d and 3d lines, by the advice of my friend Mr. Warburton; and by a minute change, or two, clear'd up the fenfe, I hope, to the poet's intention.

He

He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes and waffals, meetings, markets, fairs:
And we that fell by grofs, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with fuch fhow.
This Gallant pins the wenches on his fleeve,
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.
He can carve too, and lifp: why, this is he,
That kift away his hand in courtesy;
This is the ape of form, Monfieur the nice,
That when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay, he can fing
A mean most mainly; and, in ufhering,
Mend him who can; the ladies call him fweet;
The ftairs, as he treads on them, kifs his feet.
This is the flower, that fmiles on every one, (47)
To fhew his teeth, as white as whale his bone.-

And

(47) This is the flow'r, that fmiles on ev'ry one,-] A flower fmiling, is a very odd image. I once fufpected, that the poet might have wrote;

This is the fleerer, fmiles on ev'ry one.

But nothing is to be alter'd in the text. The metaphor is to be juftified by our author's ufage in other paffages.

Romeo and Juliet.

Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Rom. Pink for flower.

And again;

He is not the flower of courtefy; but, I warrant him as gentle as a lamb.

But the complex metaphor, as it ftands in the paffage before us, will be much better juftified by a fine piece of criticism, which my ingenious friend Mr. Warburton fent me upon this fubject. I'll fubjoin it in his own words. "What the criticks call the broken, disjointed, and mixt "metaphor are very great faults in writing. But then obferve this "rule, which, I think, is of general and constant ufe in writing, and ❝ very neceffary to direct one's judgment in this part of ftyle. That when "a metaphor is grown fo common as to defert, as 'twere, the figurative, and to be receiv'd into the fimple or common flyle, then what 66 may be affirm'd of the fubftance, may be affirm'd of the image, "the metaphor for a metaphor is an image. To illuftrate this rule by the example before us. A very complaifant, finical, over-gracious "perfon was in our author's time fo commonly call'd a flower, (or as he elsewhere ftyles it, the pink of courtefy,) that in common talk,.. "or in the loweft ftyle, it might be well ufed, without continuing "the difcourfe in the terms of that metaphor, but turning them on

L 3

C.

"the

And confciences, that will not die in debt,
Pay him the due of honey-tongu'd Boget.

King. A blifter on his fweet tongue with my heart, That put Armado's Page out of his part!

Enter the Princefs, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine, Boyet, and Attendants.

Biron. See, where it comes; behaviour, what wert thou, 'Till this man fhew'd thee? and what art thou now? King. All hail, fweet Madam, and fair time of day! Prin. Fair in all hail is foul, as I conceive. King. Conftrue my fpeeches better, if you may. Prin. Then with me better, I will give you leave. King. We come to vifit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. Prin. This field fhall hold me, and fo hold your vow : Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur❜d men. King. Rebuke me not for that, which you provoke; The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nick-name virtue; vice you should have fpoke:

For virtue's office never breaks mens troth.

"the perfon fo denominated. And now I will give the reafon of my "rule. In the lefs-ufed metaphors, our mind is fo turn'd upon the "image which the metaphor conveys, that it expects that that image "fhould be for a little time continued, by terms proper to keep it up. "But if, for want of thefe terms, the image be no fooner prefented, "but dropt; the mind fuffers a kind of violence by being call'd off "unexpectedly and fuddenly from its contemplation, and from hence "the broken, disjointed, and mixt metaphor fhocks us. But when the "metaphor is worn and hack ney'd by 'common use, even the first "mention of it does not raise in the mind the image of itself, but immediately prefents the idea of the fubftance: and then to endea"your to continue the image, and keep it up in the mind by proper adapted terms, would, on the other hand, have as ill an affect; becaufe the mind is already gone off from the metaphorical image to "the fubftance. Grammatical criticks would do well to confider "what has been here faid, when they fet upon amending Greek and "Roman writings. For the much-ufed, hackney'd metaphors in "thofe languages must now be very imperfectly known and con"fequently, without great caution, they will be fubject to act teme❝rariously."

66

Now,

Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unfully'd lilly, I proteft,

A world of torments though I should endure,
I would not yield to be your houfe's gueft:
So much I hate a breaking caufe to be
Of heav'nly oaths, vow'd with integrity.
King. O, you have liv'd in desolation here,
Unfeen, unvifited, much to our shame.
Prin. Not fo, my Lord; it is not so, I swear;,
We have had paftimes here, and pleasant game.
A mefs of Ruffians left us but of late.

King. How, Madam? Ruffians?

Prin. Ay, in truth, my Lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of fate.
Rofa. Madam, fpeak true.

It is not fo, my Lord:

My Lady (to the manner of the days)
In courtefy gives undeferving praife.

We four, indeed, confronted were with four,
In Ruffian habit: here they ftay'd an hour,
And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my Lord,
They did not blefs us with one happy word.
I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.
Biron. This jeft is dry to me. Fair, gentle, fweet,
Your wit makes wife things foolish; when we greet
With eyes beft feeing heaven's fiery eye,

By light we lofe light; your capacity

Is of that nature, as to your huge ftore
Wife things feem foolish, and rich things but poor.
Rofa. This proves you wife and rich; for in my eye---
Biron. I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Rofa. But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to fnatch words from my tongue.
Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I poffeis.
Rofa. All the fool mine?

Biron. I cannot give you lefs.

Rofa. Which of the vizors was it, that you wore? Biron.Where? when? what vizor? whydemandyou this? Rofa. There, then, that vizor, that fuperfluous cafe,