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And I to be a corporal of his file, (18)
And wear his colours ! like a tumbler, ftoop!
What? I love! I fue ! I seek a wife!
A woman that is like a German clock,
Still a repairing; ever out of frame,
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd, that it may still go right!
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all :
And among three, to love the worst of all;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and by heav'n, one that will do the deed,
Tho' Argus were her eunuch and her guard ;
And I to figh for her! to watch for her!
To pray for her! go to :- -It is a plague,
That Cupid will impofe for my neglect
Of his almighty, dreadful, little might.
Well, I will love, write, figh, pray, fue and groan:
Some men mut love my lady, and some Joan.

(Exit (18) And I to be a corporal of bis field,

And wear bis colours like a tumbler's hoop!] A corporal of a field is quite a new term: neither did the tumblers ever Adorn their boops with ribbands, that I can learn : for those were not carried in parade about with them, as the fencer carries his sword: Nor, if they were, is the fimilitude at all pertinent to the case in hand. But to stoop like a tumbler agrees not only with that profeffion, and the Servile condescensions of a lover, but with what follows in the context. What mified the wise transcribers at first, seems this: When once the tumblr appear’d, they thought, his boop must not be far behind.

Mr. Warburton.

ACT

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A C T III. . SCENE, a Pavilion in the Park near the

Palace.

Enter the Princess, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine, Lorda,

Attendants, and a Forefter.

PRINCESS.
AS that the King, that spurr'd his horse fo hard

Boyet. I know not; but, I think, it was not he.

Prin. Who e'er he was, he shew'd a mounting mind. Well, Lords, to-day we shall have our difpatch: On Saturday we will return to France. Then Forefter, my friend, where is the bush, That we must stand and play the murderer in?

For. Here by, upon the hedge of yonder coppice; A stand, where you may make the fairest shoot :

Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair, that shoot : And thereupon thou speak't the faireft shoot.

For, Pardon me, madam: for I meant not fo.

Prin. What, what? first praise me, then again fay, no? O hort-liv'd pride! not fairi alack, for woe!

For. Yes, madarn, fair.

Prin. Nay, never paint me now ;
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glafs, take this for telling true ;
Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

For. Nothing but fair is that, which you inherit.

Prir. See, lee, my beauty will be fav'd by merit.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow; now mercy goes to kill,
And fhooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save my credit in the shoot,
Not wounding, pity would not let me do't :

If

If wounding, then it was to fhew my skill;
That more for praise, than purpose, meant to kill.
And, out of question, so it is sometimes ;
Glory grows guilty of detefted crimes;
When for fame's lake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart.
As I for praise alone now seek to spill
The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

Boyet. Do not curft wives hold that self-sovereignty
Only for praise-fake, when they strive to be
Lords o'er their Lords ?

Prin. Only for praise ; and praise we may afford To any Lady, that subdues her Lord.

Enter Costard. Boyet, Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

Coft, God dig-you-den all ; pray you, which is the head Lady?

Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the reft that have no heads.

Coff. Which is the greatest Lady, the higheft?
Prin. The thickest and the talleft.

Coft. The thickest and the talleft? it is fo, truth is truth.
An your waste, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One o' these maids girdles for your waste should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickeft here.
Prin. What's your will, Sir? what's

's your

will ? Coft. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron, to one Lady

Rofaline. Prin. Othy letter, thy letter: he's a good friend of mine. Stand afide, good bearer.-Boyet, you can carve; (19)

Break

(19) Boyet, you can carve;,

Break up this capon.) i. e. open this letter. Our poet uses this metaphor, as the Frencb do their poulet ; which fig. nifies both a young fow), and a love letter. Poulet, amatoria littera; says Richelet ; and quotes from Voiture, repondre au plus obligeant poulet du monde ; to reply to the most obliging letter in the world. The Italians use the same manner of expression, when they call a love-epiftle, una pollicetta amorosa. I ow'd the hint of this equivocal use of the word to my ingenious friend Mr. Biphop. I observe in Weftwardboe, a comedy

written

up

BY

Break 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.
Y heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible

i 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 vastal. 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 anatomize in the vulgar, (o base and obscure vulgar!) videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame ; he camc, one ; faw, two ; overcame, three.

Who came ? the King. Why did he come ? to see. Why did he see? to overcome. То whom came he ? to the beggar. What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame her the beggar. The conclufion is victory; on whose fide ? the King's; the captive is enrich'd: on whose fide? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial : on whose fide ? 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 lo witnesseth thy lowlinefs. 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 prophane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the deareft design of industry,

Don Adriano de Armado. written by a contemporary with our author, that one of these letters is likewise call’d a wild-fowl, Act. 2. Sc. 2.

At the skirt of that Theet in black work is wrought his name. Break not up the wild-fowl till anon, and then feed upon him in private.

Thus

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Thus doft thou hear the Nemean lion roar
'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that ftandeft as his

prey ; Submiffive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive (poor foul) what art thou then ?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den. [letter?

Prin. What plume of feathers is he, that indited this
What vane? what weathercock ? did you ever hear better?

Boyet. I am much deceiv'd, but I remember the stile.
Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it ere while.

Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,
A phantasme, a monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his book-mates.

Prin. Thou, fellow, a word :
Who
gave

thee this letter?
Coł. I told you ; my Lord.
Prin. To whom should'st thou give it ?
Coft. From my Lord to my Lady.
Prin. From which Lord to which Lady?

Coft. From my Lord Berown, a good master of mine,
To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rofaline.

Prin. Í hou hast mistaken his letter. Come, Lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day.

[Exit Princess attended.
Boyet. Who is the shooter ? who is the shooter ?
Roja. Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.
Rofa. 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.

Roja. Well then, I am the shooter. | Boyet. And who is your deer?

Rofa. If we chuse by horns, yourself; come not near.
Finely put on, indeed,-
Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and the

ftrikes at the brow.
Boyet. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?

Rola. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it.

Boyet.

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