William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

HOLOFERNES.

What is this?

BOYET.

A cittern-head.

DUMAINE.

The head of a bodkin.

BEROWNE.

A death’s face in a ring.

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LONGAVILLE.

The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

BOYET.

The pommel of Caesar’s falchion.

DUMAINE.

The carved-bone face on a flask.

BEROWNE.

Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.

DUMAINE.

Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

BEROWNE.

Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.

And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance.

HOLOFERNES.

You have put me out of countenance.

BEROWNE.

False: we have given thee faces.

HOLOFERNES.

But you have outfaced them all.

BEROWNE.

An thou wert a lion we would do so.

BOYET.

Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

DUMAINE.

For the latter end of his name.

BEROWNE.

For the ass to the Jude? give it him:—Jud-as, away!

HOLOFERNES.

This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

BOYET.

A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble.

PRINCESS.

Alas! poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited.

[Enter ARMADO armed, for HECTOR.]

BEROWNE.

Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms.

DUMAINE.

Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

KING.

Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.

BOYET.

But is this Hector?

DUMAINE.

I think Hector was not so clean-timber’d.

LONGAVILLE.

His leg is too big for Hector’s.

DUMAINE.

More calf, certain.

BOYET.

No; he is best indued in the small.

BEROWNE.

This cannot be Hector.

DUMAINE.

He’s a god or a painter; for he makes faces.

ARMADO.

‘The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift,’—

DUMAINE.

A gilt nutmeg.

BEROWNE.

A lemon.

LONGAVILLE.

Stuck with cloves.

DUMAINE.

No, cloven.

ARMADO.

Peace!

‘The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man so breath’d that certain he would fight ye,

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower,’—

DUMAINE.

That mint.

LONGAVILLE.

That columbine.

ARMADO.

Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

LONGAVILLE.

I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

DUMAINE.

Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.

PRINCESS.

Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.

ARMADO.

I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper.

BOYET.

[Aside to DUMAIN.] Loves her by the foot.

DUMAINE.

[Aside to BOYET.] He may not by the yard.

ARMADO.

‘This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,’—

COSTARD. The party is gone; fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way.

ARMADO.

What meanest thou?

COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she’s quick; the child brags in her belly already; ‘tis yours.

ARMADO.

Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.

COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.

DUMAINE.

Most rare Pompey!

BOYET.

Renowned Pompey!

BEROWNE.

Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the

Huge!

DUMAINE.

Hector trembles.

BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on!

DUMAINE.

Hector will challenge him.

BEROWNE. Ay, if a’ have no more man’s blood in his belly than will sup a flea.

ARMADO.

By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.

DUMAINE.

Room for the incensed Worthies!

COSTARD.

I’ll do it in my shirt.

DUMAINE.

Most resolute Pompey!

MOTH.

Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see

Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose

your reputation.

ARMADO.

Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

DUMAINE.

You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.

ARMADO.

Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

BEROWNE.

What reason have you for ‘t?

ARMADO. The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

BOYET.

True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen;

since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of

Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour.

[Enter MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.]

MARCADE.

God save you, madam!

PRINCESS.

Welcome, Marcade;

But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.

MARCADE.

I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring

Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father—

PRINCESS.

Dead, for my life!

MARCADE.

Even so: my tale is told.

BEROWNE.

Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud.

ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

[Exeunt WORTHIES.]

KING.

How fares your Majesty?

PRINCESS.

Boyet, prepare: I will away tonight.

KING.

Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay.

PRINCESS.

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide

The liberal opposition of our spirits,

If overboldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath; your gentleness

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.

Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

KING.

The extreme parts of time extremely forms

All causes to the purpose of his speed,

And often at his very loose decides

That which long process could not arbitrate:

And though the mourning brow of progeny

Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince;

Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot,

Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it

From what it purpos’d; since, to wail friends lost

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

PRINCESS.

I understand you not: my griefs are double.

BEROWNE.

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;

And by these badges understand the king.

For your fair sakes have we neglected time,

Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,

Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours

Even to the opposed end of our intents;

And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous,—

As love is full of unbefitting strains;

All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;

Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,

Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,

Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll

To every varied object in his glance:

Which particoated presence of loose love

Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities,