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SCENE I

The same.
Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm.
Warble, child; make passionate my
sense of hearing.

Moth.
Concolinel. 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.

Moth.
Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? (9)

Arm.
How meanest 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. humor it with turning up your
eyelids, 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 penthouse-like 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 humours; these betray nice
wenches, that would be betrayed without
these; and make them men of note--do you
note me?--that most are affected to these.

Arm.
How hast thou purchased this experience?

Moth.
By my penny of observation.

Arm.
But O,--but O,-- (30)

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. (40)

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 sympathized; 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.
The meaning, pretty ingenious? (60)
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth.
Minime, 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 fired from a gun?

Arm.
Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

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; volable and free of grace!

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

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.

70My herald is return'd. Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.


Moth.
A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin.

Arm.
Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin.

Cost.
No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no
salve in the mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a
plain plantain! no l'envoy; no l'envoy; no
salve, sir, but a plantain!

Arm.
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'envoy, and the word l'envoy
(80)
for a salve?

Moth.
Do the wise think them other? is
not l'envoy a salve?

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

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.

I will example it:

The fox, the ape and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

There's the moral. Now the l'envoy. (89)

Moth.
I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again.

Arm.
The fox, the ape, the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

Moth.
Until the goose came out of door,

And stay'd the odds by adding four.

Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow
with my l'envoy.

The fox, the ape and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

Arm.
Until the goose came out of door,

100Staying the odds by adding four.

Moth.
A good l'envoy, ending in the goose: would you desire more?

Cost.
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'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.

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

Moth.
By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.

Then call'd you for the l'envoy.

Cost.
True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in; (110)

Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought;

And he ended the market.

Arm.
But tell me; how was there a costard
broken in a shin?

Moth.
I will tell you sensibly.

Cost.
Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I
will speak that l'envoy:

I Costard, running out, that was safely within,

Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin.

Arm.
We will talk no more of this matter.

Cost.
Till there be more matter in the shin.

Arm.
Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

Cost.
O, marry me to one Frances: I
smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this.

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

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

Arm.
I give thee thy liberty, set thee from
durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee
nothing but this: bear this significant[giving a letter]
to the country maid Jaquenetta: there
is remuneration; for the best ward of mine
honor is rewarding my dependents. Moth,
follow. Exit.

Moth.
Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.

Cost.
My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew! Exit Moth.

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.
O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly
well met.

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

Biron.
What is a remuneration?

Cost.
Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. (150)

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

Cost.
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.

Cost.
When would you have it done, sir?

Biron.
This afternoon.

Cost.
Well, I will do it, sir: fare you well.

Biron.
Thou knowest not what it is.

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

Biron.
Why, villain, thou must know first. (161)

Cost.
I will come to your worship to-morrow 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 seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go. Giving him a shilling.


Cost.
Gardon, O sweet gardon! better
than remuneration, a 'leven-pence farthing better:
most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in
print. Gardon! 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; (180)

Than whom no mortal so magnificent!

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;

Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,

The 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:-- (189)

And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!

What, I! 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 watch'd 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 wightly 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 and groan:

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

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