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

name.

Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to desire 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 Falconbridge.
Long. Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet. Not unlike, sir; that may be.

Biron. What's her name, in the cap
Boyet. Katharine, by good hap.
Biron. Is she wedded, or no?

Boyet. To her will, sir, or so.

[Exit LONG.

Byron. You are welcome, sir; adieu!

Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit BIRON.-Ladies unmask. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap

lord;

Not a word with him but a jest.

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.

[Offering to kiss her.

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:

The civil war of wits were much better used
On Navarre and his book-men; for here 'tis abused.
Boyet. If my observation, (which very seldom
lies,)

By the heart's still rhetorick, disclosed with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

Prin. With what?

Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle, 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 agate, 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 haste in his eye-sight to be;
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest 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 where they
were glass'd,

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.

5 My lips are no common, though several they be.] A play on the word several, which, besides its ordinary signification of separate, distinct, likewise signifies in uninclosed lands, a certain portion of ground appropriated to either corn or meadow, adjoining the common field.

His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,] Although the expression in the text is extremely odd, I take the sense of it to be that his tongue envied the quickness of his eyes, and strove to be as rapid in its ullerance, as they in their perception. STBEVENS.

His face's own margent did quote such amazes,
That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes :
I'll give you Aquitain, and all that is his,

An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
Prin. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd-
Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his
eye hath disclos'd:

I only have made a mouth of his eye,

By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. Ros. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully.

Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.

Ros. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim.

Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Mar.

No.

SCENE I. Another part of the same.

Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense

of hearing.

Moth. Concolinel

7

[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.

7 Concolinel-] Here is apparently a song lost: in the old comedies, the songs are frequently omitted. sfestinately hither;] i. e. hastily.

Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl??

Arm. How mean'st thou ? brawling in French? Moth. No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet,' humour it with turning up your eye-lids; sigh a note, and sing a note; sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love; sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouselike, o'er the shop of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away: These are complements, these are huniours; these betray nice wenches-that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note, (do you note, men?) that most are affected to these.

Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience? Moth. By my penny of observation.*

Arm. But 0,-but 0,

Moth. the hobby-horse is forgot.

Arm. Callest thou my love, hobby-horse?

Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love, perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love?

Arm. Almost I had.

Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart.
Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy.

Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.

a French brawl?] A brawl is a kind of dance, perhaps what we now call a cotillon.

canary to it with your feet,] Canary was the name of a spritely nimble dance.

By my penny of observation.] The allusion is to the famous old piece, called a Penniworth of Wit.

Arm. What wilt thou prove?

Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: By heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her: in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her.

Arm. I am all these three.

Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.

Arm. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter.

Moth. A message well sympathised; a horse to be ambassador for an ass!

Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou?

Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited: But I go. Arm. The way is but short; away. Moth. As swift as lead, sir.

Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth. Minimè, honest master; or rather, master,

no.

Arm. I say, lead is slow.

Moth.

You are too swift, sir, to say so:

Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun?

Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetorick!

He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.

Thump then, and I flee.

[Exit.

Arm. A most acute juvenal; voluble and free of

grace!

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy

face:

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
My herald is return'd.