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.
What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?
I am much deceived but I remember the style.
Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.
This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the prince and his bookmates.
Thou fellow, a word:
Who gave thee this letter?
From my lord Biron, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
To Rosaline. Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day. Exeunt Princess and train.
Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?
Shall I teach you to know?
Ay, my continent of beauty.
Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off!
My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,
Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.
Finely put on!
Well, then, I am the shooter.
And who is your deer?
If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on, indeed!
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.
But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?
Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.
An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
An I cannot, another can. Exeunt Rosaline and Katharine.
By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!
A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.
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.
Wide o’ the bow hand! i’ faith, your hand is out.
Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.
An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.
Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.
She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.
I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. Exeunt Boyet and Maria.
By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!
Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!
O’ my troth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit!
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.
Armado o’ th’ one side—O, a most dainty man!
To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!
To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’ will swear!
And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of wit!
Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!
Sola, sola! Shout within. Exit Costard, running.
Scene II
The same.
| Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. | |
| Nathaniel | Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. |
| Holofernes | The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. |
| Nathaniel | Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head. |
| Holofernes | Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. |
| Dull | ’Twas not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket. |
| Holofernes | Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a deer. |
| Dull | I said the deer was not |
