Cost. Then shall Hector he whipp'd, for Jaquenetta that is quick by him; and hang'd, for Pompey that is dead by him. Dum. Most rare Pompey ! Boyet. Renowned Pompey! Ber. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! Dum. Hector trembles. Ber. Pompey is moved.-More Ates, more Ates; stir them on! stir them on! Dum. Hector will challenge him. Ber. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in his belly than will sup a flea. Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man; I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I pray you, let me borrow my arms again. Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies Cost. I'll do it in my shirt. Dum. 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. Arm. Gentlemen, and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt. Dum. You may not deny it; Pompey hath made the challenge. Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. Ber. What reason have you for't? Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance. : Boyet. True, and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of linen since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none, but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's; and that 'a wears next his heart for a favour. Enter a Messenger MONSIEUR MARCADE. Mer. God save you, madam. Prin. Welcome, Marcadè; But that thou interrup'st our merriment. Mer. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father... Prin. Dead, for my life. Mer. Even so; my tale is told. Ber. Worthies, away; the scene begins to cloud. Arm. 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? Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. For all your fair endeavours; and entreat, 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. The holy suit which fain it would convince; Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, From what it purpos'd; since, to wail friends lost, As to rejoice at friends but newly found. Prin. I understand you not; my griefs are dull. And by these badges understand the King. Play'd foul play with our oaths; your beauty, ladies, To those that make us both,-fair ladies, you. Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace. Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Have we not been; and therefore met your loves Dum. Our letters, madam, shew'd much more than Long. So did our looks. Ros. King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. Prin. We did not quote them so. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much, Change not your offer made in heat of blood; Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut For the remembrance of my father's death. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, 38 Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. [Ber. And what to me, my love? and what to me? Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rank; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick.] Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to me? Kath. A wife!-A beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three. Dum. Oh! shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife? Kath. Not so, my lord;-a twelvemonth and a day I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come, Mar. Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Berowne, To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain; Ber. To move wild laughter in the throat of death! It cannot be; it is impossible. Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. Ros. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace, Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it; then, if sickly ears, Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans, |