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Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
Rof. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once ?
Biron. I know, you did.
Rof. How needless was it then to ask the question?
Biron. You must not be so quick.
Rof. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such

Biron. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill

Rof. Not 'till it leave the rider in the mire.
Biron. What time o'day?
Rof. The hour, that fools should ask.
Biron. Now fair befal your inalk!
Rof. Fair fall the face it covers !
Biron. And send you many lovers !
Rof. Amen, so you be none !
Biron. Nay, then will I be gone.

King. Madam, your father here doth intimate
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
Being but th' one half of an intire fum,
Disbursed by my father in his wars.
But say, that he, or we, as neither have,
Receiv'd that sum; yet there remains unpaid
A hundred thousand more; in furety of the which,
One part of Aquitain is bound to us,
Although not valu'd to the money's worth:
If then the King your father will restore
But that one half which is unsatisfy'd,
We will give up our right in Aquitain,
And hold fair friendship with his Majesty :
But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
For bere he doth demand to have repaid
An hundred thousand crowns, and not demandı,

of an hundred thousand crowns,
To have his title live in Aquitain,
Which we much rather bad depart withal,
And have the money by our father lent,
Than Aquitain so gelded as it is.


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Dear Princess, were not his requests so far
From reason's yielding, your fair self should make
A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast;
And go well satisfied to France again.

Prin. You do the King my father too much wrong, And

wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt. Of that, which hath so faithfully been paid.

King. I do proteft, I never heard of it;
And if you prove it, I'll repay it back,
Or yield up Aquitain.

Prin. We arrest your word:
Boyet, you can produce acquittances
For such a fum, from special officers
Of Charles his father.

King. Satisfy me fo.

Buyet. So please your Grace, the packet is not come,
Where that and other specialties are bound:
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

King. It shall suffice me; at which interview,
All liberal reason I will yield unto :
Mean time, receive fuch welcome at my hand,
As honour without breach of honour may
Make tender of, to thy truie worthiness.
You may not come, fair Princess, in

my gates;
But here, without, you shall be fo receiv'd,
As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,
Thó' so deny'd fair harbour in my house:
Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewel;
To-morrow we shall visit you again.
Prin. Sweet health and fair desires confort your

Grace ! King. Thy own Wish with I thee, in every place.

Exit. Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own heart.

Rof. I pray you, do my commendations ;
I would be glad to see it.
Biron. I would, you heard it groan,


Rof. Is the fool sick?
Biron. Sick at thc heart.
Rof. Alack, let it blood.
Biron. Would that do it good ?
Rof. My physic says, ay.
Biron. Will you prick’t with your eye?
ROS. No, poynt, with my knife.
Biron. Now God save thy life !
Rof. And yours from long living!
Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving:

[Exit. Dum. Sir, I pray you a word: what lady is that

same? Boyet. The heir of Alanson, Rosaline her name. Dúm. A gallant lady; Monsieur, fare you well.

(Exit. Long. I beseech you, a word: what is she in white? Boyet. A woman sometimes, if you saw her in the

light. Long. Perchance, light in the light; I desire her


Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to delire That,

were a shame.
Long. Pray you, Sir, whose daughter?
Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard.
Long. God's blessing on your beard !

Boyet. Good Sir, be not offended.
She is an heir of Faulconbridge.

Long. Nay, my choller is ended :
She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet. Not unlike, Sir; that may be. [Exit Long.
Biron. What's her name in the cap?
Boyet. Catharine, by good hap
Biron. Is The wedded, or no?
Boyet. To her will, Sir, or so.
Biron. You are welcome, Sir; adieu !
Boyet. Farewel to me, Sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit Biron. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest.


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Boyet. And every jest but a word.
Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his

word. Boyet. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to

board. Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry.

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

the jest?
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,

agree. 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 seldom lies) ) By the heart's still rhetoric, disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infeded.

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 desire :
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 stumble with hafte in his eye-fight to be:
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on faireft of fair ;
Methought, all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some Prince to buy ;
Who tend'ring their own worth, from whence they

were glasst, Did point out to buy them, along as you past.


His face's own margent


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 : Biryet is dispos'
Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his eye

hath difclos'da
I only have made a mouth of his cye.
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.
Rof. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest

Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of
jt i him.
Rof. 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?
Ros. Ay, our way to be gone.
Boyet. You are too hard for me.


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Walhearing child; make passionate my sense


The Park; near the Palace.
Enter Armado and Moth.



senfe of hearing Moth. Concolinel

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

Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? Arm. How mean'st thou, brawling in French?


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