Moth. I will tell you fenfibly. Coft. Thou haft no feeling of it, Moth. Coftard running out, that was fafely within, Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. Coft. 'Till there be more matter in the fhin." Arm. Sirrah, Coftard, I will infranchife thee. Coft. O, marry me to one Francis; I fmell fome l'envoy, fome goofe in this. Arm. By my fweet foul, I mean, fetting thee at liberty; enfreedoming thy perfon; thou wert immur'd, reftrained, captivated, bound. Coft. True, true, and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. Arm. I give thee thy liberty, fet thee from durance, and, in lieu thereof, impofe on thee nothing but this; bear this fignificant to the country-maid Jaquenetta; there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honours is rewarding my dependants. Moth, follow. [Exit. Moth. Like the fequele, I. Signior Coftard, adieu. [Exit, Coft. My fweet ounce of man's flesh, my in-cony jewel! Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O, that's the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings remuneration: What's the price of this incle? a penny. No, I'll give you a remuneration: why, it carries it. Remuneration! -why, it is a fairer name than a French crown. I will never buy and fell out of this word. Coft. Pray you, Sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration ? Biron. What is a remuneration? Coft. Marry, Sir, half-penny farthing. Biron. O, why then three farthings worth of filk. Coft. When would you have it done, Sir? Coft. Well, I will do it, Sir: fare you well. Coft. I fhall know, Sir, when I have done it. Biron. It muft be done this afternoon. Hark, flave, it is but this: The Princefs comes to hunt here in the park: When tongues fpeak fweetly, then they name her name, And Rofaline they call her; ask for her, And to her fweet hand fee thou do commend This feal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go. Coft. Guerdon,-O fweet guerdon! better than remuneration, eleven-pence farthing better: moft fweet guerdon! I will do it, Sir, in print. Guerdon, remuneration. Biron. O and I, forfooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip; A [Exit. very beadle to a humorous figh: ? ameroris A critic; nay, a night-watch conftable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, . This * Signior Junio's giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid, Of trotting parators: (O my little heart!) And wear his colours! like a tumbler, stoop! With two pitch balls ftuck in her face for eyes; Well, I will love, write, figh, pray, fue and groan: Some men must love my lady, and fome Joan. [Exit. ACT IV. SCENE I. A Pavilion in the Park near the Palace. Enter the Princefs, Rosaline, Maria, Catharine, Lords, WAS Attendants, and a Forefter. PRINCESS. TAS that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard * Signior Junio's] By this is meant Youth in general. O 3 Boyet. Boyet. I know not; but, I think, it was not he. Prin. Who c'er he was, he fhew'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to day we fhall have our dispatch; Then Forefter, my friend, where is the bufh, For. Pardon me, madam: for I meant not fo. no? O fhort-liv'd pride! not fair? alack, for woe! Prin. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here,, good my glass, take this for telling true; Fair payment for foul words is more than due. For. Nothing but fair is that, which you inherit. Prin. See, fee, my beauty will be fav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for thefe days! A giving hand, though foul, fhall have fair praise. When for fame's fake, for praise, an outward part, The poor Only Only for praife-fake, when they ftrive to be Prin. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady, that fubdues her lord. Enter Coftard. 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. Coft. Which is the greateft lady, the highest? Coft. The thickeft and the talleft? it is fo, truth is truth. * An' my wafte, mistress, were as flender as your wit, One o' these maids girdles for my wafte fhould be fit. Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickeft here. Prin. What's your will, Sir? what's your will? Coft. I have a letter from Monfieur 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; Boyet. I am bound to ferve. This letter is miftook, it importeth none here; * An' your waste, mistress, were as flender as my wit, One o' thefe maids girdles for your waste should be fit.] And was not one of her Maid's Girdles fit for her? It is plain that my and your have all the Way changed Places, by fome Accident or other; and that the Lines fhould be read thus, An' my waste, miftrefs, was as flender as your wit, 04 Prin. |