And I to be a corporal of his field",
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!"
What? I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!
A woman, that is like a German clock,
Still a repairing; ever out of frame;
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd that it may still go right?
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:
And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan;
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.- Another part of the same.

Enter the Princess, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.

Prin. Was that the king, that spurr'd his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

5 And I to be a corporal of his field,] A corporal of the field was employed as an aid-de-camp is now, in taking and carrying to and fro the directions of the general, or other the higher officers of the field.

6 And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!] Tumbler's hoops are to this day bound round with ribbands of various colours.

PRIN. 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.

Act IV. Sc 1

London. Published by FC & J. Rivington, and Partners, Feb 1823.

Boyet. I know not; but, I think, it was not he. Prin. Whoe'er he was, he show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our despatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush, That we must stand and play the murderer in?

For. Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand, where you may make the fairest shoot. Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st, the fairest shoot.

For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. Prin. What, what? first praise me, and again say, no?

O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

For. Yes, madam, fair.

Prin.
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true;

Nay, never paint me now;

[Giving him money.

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
·Prin. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow: Now mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;
If wounding, then it was to show my skill,

That more for praise, than purpose, meant to kill.
And, out of question, so it is sometimes;
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes;

When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart:

As I, for praise alone, now seek to spill

The poor deer's blood, that my heart means

ill.

no

Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be

Lords o'er their lords?

Prin. Only for praise: and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord.

Enter COSTARD.

Prin. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. Cost. God dig-you-den' all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

Prin. The thickest, and the tallest.

Cost. The thickest, and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth.

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One of these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest

here.

Prin. What's your will, sir? what's your will?
Cost. I have a letter from monsieur Biron, to one lady

Rosaline.

Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine.

Stand aside, good bearer. — Boyet, you can carve;
Break up this capon.

Boyet.

I am bound to serve. -
This letter is mistook, it importeth none here;
It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin.
We will read it, I swear:
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

7 God dig-you-den-] A corruption of - God give you good even. 8 Break up this capon.] i. e. open this letter. Our poet uses this metaphor, as the French do their poulet; which signifies both a young fowl and a love-letter.