ARMADO How hast thou purchased this experience?

  MOTE By my penny of observation.

  ARMADO But O, but O-

  MOTE ‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’

  ARMADO Call’st thou my love hobby-horse ?

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

  ARMADO Almost I had.

  MOTE Negligent student, learn her by heart.

  ARMADO By heart and in heart, boy.

  MOTE And out of heart, master. All those three I will prove. 36

  ARMADO What wilt thou prove?

  MOTE 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.

  ARMADO I am all these three.

  MOTE (aside) And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.

  ARMADO Fetch hither the swain. He must carry me a letter.

  MOTE (aside) A message well sympathized—a horse to be ambassador for an ass.

  ARMADO Ha, ha! What sayst thou?

  MOTE Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

  ARMADO The way is but short. Away!

  MOTE As swift as lead, sir. 55

  ARMADO The meaning, pretty ingenious?

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

  MOTE

  Minime, honest master—or rather, master, no.

  ARMADO

  I say lead is slow.

  MOTE You are too swift, sir, to say so.

  Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun?

  ARMADO Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

  He reputes me a cannon, and the bullet, that’s he.

  I shoot thee at the swain.

  MOTE Thump, then, and I flee.

  Exit

  ARMADO

  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 returned.

  Enter Mote the page, and Costard the clown

  MOTE

  A wonder, master—here’s a costard broken in a shin.

  ARMADO

  Some enigma, some riddle; come, thy l’envoi. Begin.

  COSTARD No egma, no riddle, no l‘envoi, no salve in the mail, sir. O sir, plantain, a plain plantain—no l’envoi, no l’envoi, no salve, sir, but a plantain.

  ARMADO By virtue, thou enforcest laughter—thy silly thought my spleen. The heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. O pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l‘envoi, and the word l’envoi for a salve?

  MOTE

  Do the wise think them other? Is not l’envoi a salve ?

  ARMADO

  No, page, it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain

  Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.

  I will example it. so

  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee

  Were still at odds, being but three.

  There’s the moral. Now the /’envoi.

  MOTE I will add the l’envoi. Say the moral again.

  ARMADO The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee

  Were still at odds, being but three.

  MOTE Until the goose came out of door

  And stayed the odds by adding four.

  Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l’envoi.

  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee

  Were still at odds, being but three.

  ARMADO Until the goose came out of door,

  Staying the odds by adding four.

  MOTE A good l’envoi, ending in the goose. Would you desire more?

  COSTARD

  The boy hath sold him a bargain—a goose, that’s flat.

  Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat.

  To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose.

  Let me see, a fat l’envoi-ay, that’s a fat goose.

  ARMADO

  Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

  MOTE

  By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.

  Then called you for the l’envoi.

  COSTARD True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument in. Then the boy’s fat l’envoi, the goose that you bought, and he ended the market.

  ARMADO But tell me, how was there a costard broken in a shin?

  MOTE I will tell you sensibly.

  COSTARD Thou hast no feeling of it. Mote, I will speak that l’envoi.

  I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,

  Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

  ARMADO We will talk no more of this matter.

  COSTARD Till there be more matter in the shin.

  ARMADO Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

  COSTARD O, marry me to one Frances! I smell some l’envoi, some goose, in this.

  ARMADO By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person. Thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound.

  COSTARD True, true, and now you will be my purgation and let me loose.

  ARMADO I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance, and in lieu thereof impose on thee nothing but this: bear this significant to the country maid, Jaquenetta. (Giving him a letter) There is remuneration (giving him money), for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependants. Mote, follow. Exit

  MOTE

  Like the sequel, I. Signor Costard, adieu. Exit

  COSTARD

  My sweet ounce of man’s flesh, my incony Jew!

  Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration—

  O, that’s the Latin word for three-farthings. Three

  farthings—remuneration. ‘What’s the price of this

  inkle?’ ‘One penny.’ ‘No, I’ll give you a remuneration.’

  Why, it carries it! Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer

  name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out

  of this word.

  Enter Biron

  BIRON My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met.

  COSTARD Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?

  BIRON What is a remuneration?

  COSTARD Marry, sir, halfpenny-farthing.

  BIRON Why, then, three-farthing-worth of silk.

  COSTARD I thank your worship. God be wi’ you.

  BIRON Stay, slave, I must employ thee.

  As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,

  Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

  COSTARD When would you have it done, sir?

  BIRON This afternoon.

  CUSTARD Well, I will do it, sir. Fare you well.

  BIRON Thou knowest not what it is.

  CUSTARD I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

  BIRON Why, villain, thou must know first.

  COSTARD I will come to your worship tomorrow morning.

  BIRON

  It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave,

  It is but this:

  The Princess comes to hunt here in the park,

  And in her train there is a gentle lady.

  When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her

  name,

  And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her,

  And to her white hand see thou do commend

  This sealed-up counsel. There’s thy guerdon (giving him a letter and money), go.

  COSTARD Guerdon! O sweet guerdon!—better than remuneration, elevenpence-farthing better—most sweet guerdon! I will do it, sir, in print. Guerdon—remuneration. Exit

  BIRON

  And I, forsooth, in love—I that have been love’s whip,

  A very beadle to a humorous sigh,

  A critic, nay, a night-watch constable,

  A domineering pedant o‘er the boy,

  Than whom no mortal so magnificent.

  This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,

  This Signor Junior, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid,

  Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,

  Th’anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,

  Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,

  Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

  Sole imperator and great general

  Of trotting paritors—O my little heart!

  And I to be a corporal of his field,

  And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop!

  What? 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 watched that it may still go right.

  Nay, to be perjured, 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, groan:

  Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. Exit

  4.1 Enter the Princess, a Forester, her ladies-Rosaline, Maria, and Catherine—and her lords, among them Boyet

  PRINCESS

  Was that the King that spurred his horse so hard

  Against the steep uprising of the hill?

  ⌈BOYET⌉

  I know not, but I think it was not he.

  PRINCESS

  Whoe’er a was, a showed a mounting mind.

  Well, lords, today we shall have our dispatch.

  Ere Saturday we will return to France.

  Then, forester my friend, where is the bush

  That we must stand and play the murderer in?

  FORESTER

  Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice—

  A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

  PRINCESS

  I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

  And thereupon thou speak’st ‘the fairest shoot’.

  FORESTER

  Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

  PRINCESS

  What, what? First praise me, and again say no?

  O short-lived pride! Not fair? Alack, for woe !

  FORESTER

  Yes, madam, fair.

  PRINCESS Nay, never paint me now.

  Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

  Here, good my glass, take this for telling true.

  She gives him money

  Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

  FORESTER

  Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

  PRINCESS

  See, see, my beauty will be saved 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 no ill.

  BOYET

  Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty

  Only for praise’ sake when they strive to be

  Lords o’er their lords?

  PRINCESS

  Only for praise, and praise we may afford

  To any lady that subdues a lord.

  Enter Costard the clown

  BOYET

  Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

  COSTARD God dig-you-de’en, all. Pray you, which is the

  head lady?

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

  COSTARD Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

  PRINCESS The thickest and the tallest.

  COSTARD

  The thickest and the tallest—it is so, truth is truth.

  An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit

  One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.

  Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.

  PRINCESS What’s your will, sir? What’s your will?

  COSTARD

  I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline.

  PRINCESS

  O, thy letter, thy letter! (She takes it) He’s a good friend of mine.

  (To Costard) Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve.

  Break up this capon.

  She gives the letter to Boyet

  BOYET I am bound to serve.

  This letter is mistook. It importeth none here.

  It is writ to Jaquenetta.

  PRINCESS We will read it, I swear.

  Break the neck of the wax, and everyone give ear.

  BOYET (reads) ‘By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible, true that thou art beauteous, truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua set’s eye upon the penurious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say “Veni, vidi, vicí”, which to annothanize in the vulgar—O base and obscure vulgar!—videlicet “He came, see, and overcame.” He came, one; see, two; overcame, three. Who came? The King. Why did he come? To see. Why did he see? To overcome. To whom came he? To the beggar. What saw he? The beggar. Who overcame he? The beggar. The conclusion is victory. On whose side? The King’s. The captive is enriched. On whose side? The beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial. On whose side? The King’s—no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the King—for so stands the comparison—thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy 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.’

  PRINCESS

  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.

  PRINCESS

  Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.

  BOYET

  This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,

  A phantasim, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport

  To the Prince and his bookmates.

  PRINCESS (to Costard) Thou, fellow, a word.

  Who gave thee this letter?

  COSTARD I told you—my lord.

  PRINCESS

  To whom shouldst thou give it?

  COSTARD From my lord to my lady.

  PRINCESS

  From which lord to which lady?

  COSTARD

  From my lord Biron, a good master of mine,

  To a lady of France that he called Rosaline.

  PRINCESS

  Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

  (To Rosaline, giving her the letter)

  Here, sweet, put up this, ‘twill be thine another day.

  Exit attended

  BOYET

  Who is the suitor? Who is the suitor?

  ROSALINE

  Shall I teach you to know?

  BOYET

  Ay, my continent of beauty.

  ROSALINE

  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.

  ROSALINE

  Well then, I am the shooter.

  BOYET

  And who is your deer?

  ROSALINE

  If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.

  Finely put on indeed!

  MARIA

  You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.

  BOYET

  But she herself is hit tower—have I hit her now?

  ROSALINE Shall I come upon thee with an old saying that was a man when King Pépin 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 Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.

  ROSALINE (sings)

  Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

  Thou canst not hit it, my good man.