Biron. This can't be Hector.

Dum. He's a god or a painter, for he makes faces. Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the almighty, Gave Hector a gift,

Dum. A gilt nutmeg.

Biron. A lemon.

Long. Stuck with cloves.

Dum. No, cloven.

Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man fo breath'd, that certain he would fight ye
From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower.

Dum. That mint.

Long. That cullambine.

Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. Long. I muft rather give it the rein; for it runs againft Hector.

Dum. Ay, and Hector's a grey-hound.

Arm. The fweet war-man is dead and rotten; Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the bury'd: But I will forward with my device;

Sweet Royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. Prin. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. Arm. I do adore thy fweet Grace's flipper.

Boyet. Loves her by the foot.

Dum. He may not by the yard.

Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal. Coft. The party is gone, fellow Hector, fhe is gone; fhe is two months on her way.

Arm. What mean'it thou?

Coft. Faith, unless you play the honeft Trojan, the poor wench is caft away; fhe's quick, the child brags in her belly already. 'Tis your's.

Arm. Doft thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.

Coft. Then fhall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta, that is quick by him; and hang'd for Pompey, that is dead by him.

Dum. Moft rare Pompey!
Boyet. Renowned Pompey!

Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the huge!

Dum. Hector trembles.

Biron. Pompey is mov'd; more Atès, more Atès; ftir them on, ftir them on.

Dum. Hector will challenge him.

Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's belly than will fup a flea.

Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

Caft. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I'll fath; I'll do't by the fword: I pray you, let me borrow my arms again.

Dum. Room for the incenfed worthies.

Coft. I'll do it in my fhirt.

Dum. Moft refolute Pompey!

Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do ye not fee, Pompey is uncafing for the combat? What mean you? you will lofe your reputation.

Arm. Gentlemen, and foldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my fhirt.

Dum. You may not deny it, Pompey hath made the challenge.

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Biron. What reafon have you for 't?

drm. The naked truth of it is, I have no fhirt; I go woolward for penance.

Boyet. True, and it was injoined him in Rome for want of linen; fince when, I'll be fworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that he wears next his heart for a favour."

Mac. God fave you, Madam!

Prin. Welcome, Macard, but that thou interruptest our merriment.

Mac. I'm forry, Madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your fatherPrin. Dead! for my life.

Mac. Even fo, my tale is told.

Biren. Worthies, away; the fccne begins to cloud. Arm. For my own part, I breathe free breath; I have

feen the day of right through the little hole of difcretion, and I will right myfelf like a foldier.

King. How fares your Majefty?

[Exeunt worthies.

Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. King, Madam, not fo; I do befeech you, ftay. Prin. Prepare, I fay.—I thank you, gracious Lords, For all your fair endeavours; and intreat, Out of a new-fad foul, that you vouchfafe In your rich wisdom to excufe, or hide, The liberal oppofition of our fpirits; If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converfe of breath, your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy Lord; An heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue : Excufe me fo, coming fo fhort of thanks, For my great fuit fo cafily obtain'd.

King. The extreme part of time extremely forms All caufes to the purpose of his fpeed;

And often, at his very loofe, decides

That which long procefs could not arbitrate.
And though the mourning brow of progeny
Forbid the fmiling courtesy of love,
The holy fuit which fain it would convince;
Yet fince love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of forrow juftle it

From what it purpos'd: fince, to wail friends loft,
Is not by much fo wholefome, profitable,

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin. I understand you not, my griefs are double. Biron. Honeft plain words beft pierce the ear of grief;

And by thefe badges understand the King,

For your fair fakes have we neglected time,

Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, Ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to th' oppofed end of our intents;
And what in us hath feem'd ridiculous,
As love is full of unbefitting ftrains,
All wanton as a child, skipping in vain,
Form'd by the eye, and therefore like the eye,
Full of ftraying fhapes, of habits, and of forms,

Varying in fubjects as the eye doth rowl,
To every varied object in his glance;
Which party-coated prefence of loofe love
Put on by us, if, in your heav'nly eyes,
Have mifbecom'd our oaths and gravities;
Thofe heav'nly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make them: therefore, Ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewife yours. We to ourselves prove
falfe,

By being once false, for ever to be true

To thofe that make us both; fair Ladies, you:
And even that falfehood, in itself a fin,

Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace.

Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Your favours, the embaffadors of love :

And in our maiden council rated them
At courtship, pleafant jeft, and courtesy;
As bumbaft, and as lining to the time :
But more devout than this, (fave our refpects),

Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.

Dum. Our letters, Madam, fhew'd much more than jeft.

Long. So did our looks.

Rof. We did not quote them fo.

King. Now at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

Prin. A time, methinks, too short,

To make a world-without-end bargain in;

No, no, my Lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltinefs; and therefore, this-
If for my love (as there is no fuch cause)
You will do aught, this fhall you do for me;
Your oath I will not truft; but go with speed
To fome forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay, until the twelve celeftial figns
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this auftere infociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frofts, and fafts, hard lodging, and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy bloffoms of your love,

But that it bear this trial, and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come challenge me; challenge me, by these deserts;
And by this virgin palm, now kifling thine,

I will be thine; and till that inftant shut
My woful felf up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation,

For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other's heart.

King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To fetter up these powers of mine with reft;
The fudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence, ever then, my heart is in thy breast.
[* Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to me?
Rof. You must be purged too, your fins are rank,
You are attaint with fault and perjury;

Therefore if you my favour mean to get,
A twelvemonth fhall you spend, and never reft,
But feek the weary beds of people fick.]

Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to me? Gath. A wife!—a beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

Dum. O, fhall I fay, I thank you, gentle wife? Cath. Not fo, my Lord, a twelvemonth and a day, I'll mark no words that fmooth-fac'd wooers fay. Come, when the King doth to my Lady come; Then if I have much love, I'll give you fome. Dum. I'll ferve thee true and faithfully till then. Cath. Yet fwear not, left ye be forfworn again. Long. What fays Maria?

Mar. At the twelvemonth's end,

I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long. I'll ftay with patience; but the time is long. Mar. The liker you; few taller are fo young. Biron. Studies my Lady? Mistress, look on me, Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble fuit attends thy answer there; Impose fome fervice on me for my love.

* These fix lines are misplaced, and ought to be expunged, as being the author's firft draught only, of what he afterwards improved and made more perfect. Mr Warburton.