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

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were ftill at odds, being but three:
ARM. Until the goose came out of door,
Staying the odds by adding four.
MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose;
Would you defire more?

COST. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat:

Sir, your penny-worth is good, an your goose be fat.To fell a bargain well, is as cunning as fast and loose : Let me fee a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.

ARM. Come hither, come hither: How did this argument begin?

MOTH. By faying, that a Coftard 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:

Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goofe that you bought; And he ended the market.

ARM. But tell me; how was there a Coftard broken in a fhin?

MOTH. I will tell you fenfibly.

COST. Thou haft no feeling of it, Moth; I will speak that l'envoy :

I, Coftard, running out, that was fafely within,
Fell over the threshold, and broke my fhin.

ARM. We will talk no more of this matter.
COST. Till there be more matter in the shin.
ARM. Sirrah Coftard, I will enfranchise thee.
COST. O, marry me to one Frances ;-I fmell fome
l'envoy, fome goose, in this.

ARM. By my fweet foul, I mean, fetting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy perfon; thou wert immur'd, reftrained, captivated, bound.

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

ARM. I give thee thy liberty, fet thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impofe on thee nothing but this: Bear this fignificant to the country maid Jaquenetta : there is remuneration; [Giving him money.] for the best ward of mine honour, is, rewarding my dependants. Moth, follow. [Exit.

MOTH. Like the fequel, I. Signior Coftard, adieu. COST. My fweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew! [Exit MOTH. Remuneration!

Now will I look to his remuneration. O, that's the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings remuneration.-What's the price of this inkle? a 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 fell out of this

word.

Enter BIRON.

BIRON. O, my good knave Coftard! exceedingly well

met.

COST. Pray you, fir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?

BIRON. What is a remuneration?

COST. Marry, fir, half-penny farthing.

BIRON. O, why then, three farthings worth of filk, Cost. I thank your worship: God be with you! BIRON. O, stay, flave; 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, fir?
BIRON. O, this afternoon.

COST. Well, I will do it, fir: Fare you well.
BIRON. O, thou knoweft not what it is.
COST. I fhall know, fir, when I have done it.
BIRON. Why, villain, thou must know first.

COST. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.
BIRON. It must be done this afternoon.

Hark, flave,

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 Rofaline they call her: ask for her;

And to her white hand fee thou do commend

This feal'd-up counfel. There's thy guerdon; go.

[Gives him money.

COST. Guerdon,-O fweet guerdon! better than remuneration; eleven-pence farthing better: Most sweet guerdon !—I will do it, fir, in print.-Guerdon—remu

neration.

[Exit. BIRON. O! And I, forfooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip;

A very beadle to a humorous figh;

A critick; nay, a night-watch constable;

A domineering pedant o'er the boy,

Than whom no mortal fo magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;
This fenior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
Regent of love-rhimes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed fovereign of fighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator, and great general

Σ

Of trotting paritors, O my little heart!-
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
What? I! I love! I fue! I feek 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 ftill go right?
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls ftuck 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 figh 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, figh, pray, fue, and groan;
Some men must love my lady, and fome Joan.

[Exit.

ACT IV

SCENE I. Another part of the fame.

Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BorET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forefter.

PRIN. Was that the king, that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill?

BOYET. I know not; but, I think, it was not he.

PRIN. Whoe'er he was, he show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our despatch; On Saturday we will return to France.Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush, VOL. II. E

That we must ftand and play the murderer in?
FOR. Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
A stand, where you may make the fairest shoot.

PRIN, I thank my beauty, I am fair that fhoot,
And thereupon thou speak'ft, the fairest shoot.

FOR. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not fo. PRIN. What, what? first praise me, and again fay, no? O fhort-liv'd pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

FOR. Yes, madam, fair.

PRIN. Nay, never paint me now;

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow,
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true;

[Giving him money,

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
FOR. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
PRIN. See, fee, my beauty will be fav'd by merit.
O herefy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, fhall have fair praise.—
But come, the bow :-Now mercy goes to kill,
And fhooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I fave my credit in the shoot:
Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;
If wounding, then it was to fhow my skill,
That more for praife, than purpose, meant to kill.
And, out of queftion, fo it is fometimes;
Glory grows guilty of detefted crimes;

When, for fame's fake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart:

As I, for praise alone, now seek to spill

The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

BOYET. Do not curft wives hold that felf-fovereignty

Only for praife' fake, when they ftrive to be
Lords o'er their lords?