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.
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