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 profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine, in the dearest design of industry,
Don Adriano de Armado.
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;
Submissive fall his princely feet before,
And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.”
Prin.
What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?
Boyet.
I am much deceived but I remember the style.
Prin.
Else your memory is bad, going o’er it ere-while.
Boyet.
This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his book-mates.
Prin.
Thou fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter?
Cost.
I told you: my lord.
Prin.
To whom shouldst thou give it?
Cost.
From my lord to my lady.
Prin.
From which lord to which lady?
Cost.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline.
Prin.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
[To Rosaline.]
Here, sweet, put up this—’twill be thine another day.
[Exeunt Princess and Train.]
Boyet.
Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
Ros.
Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet.
Ay, my continent of beauty.
Ros.
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!
Ros.
Well then I am the shooter.
Boyet.
And who is your deer?
Ros.
If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on indeed!
Mar.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.
Boyet.
But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?
Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippen of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?
Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
Ros. [Sings.]
Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.
Boyet [Sings.]
And I cannot, cannot, cannot,
And I cannot, another can.
Exeunt [Rosaline and Katherine].
Cost.
By my troth, most pleasant. How both did fit it!
Mar.
A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit [it].
Boyet.
A mark! O, mark but that mark! a mark, says my lady!
Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be.
Mar.
Wide a’ the bow-hand! I’ faith, your hand is out.
Cost.
Indeed ’a must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.
Boyet.
And if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
Cost.
Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the [pin].
Mar.
Come,
