Qu. What plume of feathers is hee that indited this Letter? What veine? What Wethercocke? Did you euer heare better? Boy. I am much deceiued, but I remember the stile

Qu. Else your memorie is bad, going ore it erewhile

Boy. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court A Phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his Booke-mates

Qu. Thou fellow, a word. Who gaue thee this Letter? Clow. I told you, my Lord

Qu. To whom should'st thou giue it? Clo. From my Lord to my Lady

Qu. From which Lord, to which Lady? Clo. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline

Qu. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come Lords away. Here sweete, put vp this, 'twill be thine another day.

Exeunt.

Boy. Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter? Rosa. Shall I teach you to know

Boy. I my continent of beautie

Rosa. Why she that beares the Bow. Finely put off

Boy. My Lady goes to kill hornes, but if thou marrie, Hang me by the necke, if hornes that yeare miscarrie. Finely put on

Rosa. Well then, I am the shooter

Boy. And who is your Deare? Rosa. If we choose by the hornes, your selfe come not neare. Finely put on indeede

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

Boyet. But she her selfe is hit lower: Haue I hit her now

Rosa. Shall I come vpon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pippin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it

Boyet. So I may answere thee with one as old that was a woman when Queene Guinouer of Brittaine was a little wench, as touching the hit it

Rosa. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it my good man

Boy. I cannot, cannot, cannot: And I cannot, another can. Enter.

Clo. By my troth most pleasant, how both did fit it

Mar. A marke marueilous well shot, for they both did hit

Boy. A mark, O marke but that marke: a marke saies my Lady. Let the mark haue a pricke in't, to meat at, if it may be

Mar. Wide a'th bow hand, yfaith your hand is out

Clo. Indeede a' must shoote nearer, or heele ne're hit the clout

Boy. And if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in

Clo. Then will shee get the vpshoot by cleauing the is in

Ma. Come, come, you talke greasely, your lips grow foule

Clo. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir challenge her to boule

Boy. I feare too much rubbing: good night my good Oule

Clo. By my soule a Swaine, a most simple Clowne. Lord, Lord, how the Ladies and I haue put him downe. O my troth most sweete iests, most inconie vulgar wit, When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armathor ath to the side, O a most dainty man. To see him walke before a Lady, and to beare her Fan. To see him kisse his hand, and how most sweetly a will sweare: And his Page atother side, that handfull of wit, Ah heauens, it is most patheticall nit. Sowla, sowla.

Exeunt. Shoote within.

Enter Dull, Holofernes, the Pedant and Nathaniel.

Nat. Very reuerent sport truely, and done in the testimony of a good conscience

Ped. The Deare was (as you know) sanguis in blood, ripe as a Pomwater who now hangeth like a Iewell in the eare of Celo the skie; the welken the heauen, and anon falleth like a Crab on the face of Terra, the soyle, the land, the earth

Loues Labour's lost Page 16

William Shakespeare Plays

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