Part 6

BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he.

COSTARD. _I Pompey am_—

BOYET. With leopard’s head on knee.

BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker. I must needs be friends with thee.

COSTARD. _I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big._

DUMAINE. The “Great”.

COSTARD. It is “Great”, sir; _Pompey surnamed the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat. And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France._ If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pompey”, I had done.

PRINCESS. Great thanks, great Pompey.

COSTARD. ’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in “Great”.

BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Enter Nathaniel, the Curate, for Alexander.

NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander._

BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right.

BEROWNE. Your nose smells “no” in this, most tender-smelling knight.

PRINCESS. The conqueror is dismayed. Proceed, good Alexander.

NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander_—

BOYET. Most true; ’tis right. You were so, Alisander.

BEROWNE. Pompey the Great—

COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard.

BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

COSTARD. [_To Sir Nathaniel_.] O sir, you have overthrown Alisander the Conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his pole-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak? Run away for shame, Alisander. [_Nathaniel retires_.] There, an’t shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander, alas you see how ’tis—a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

PRINCESS. Stand aside, good Pompey.

Enter Holofernes, the Pedant, as Judas, and Moth, the Boy, as Hercules.

HOLOFERNES. _Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club killed Cerberus, that three-headed_ canus, _And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his_ manus. Quoniam _he seemeth in minority_, Ergo _I come with this apology._ Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.

[_Moth retires._]

_Judas I am._—

DUMAINE. A Judas!

HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. _Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus._

DUMAINE. Judas Maccabaeus clipped is plain Judas.

BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas?

HOLOFERNES. _Judas I am_—

DUMAINE. The more shame for you, Judas.

HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir?

BOYET. To make Judas hang himself.

HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder.

BEROWNE. Well followed. Judas was hanged on an elder.

HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance.

BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face.

HOLOFERNES. What is this?

BOYET. A cittern-head.

DUMAINE. The head of a bodkin.

BEROWNE. A death’s face in a ring.

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.

[_Exit Holofernes._]

PRINCESS. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited!

Enter Armado, the Braggart, as 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 Trojan in respect of this.

BOYET. But is this Hector?

DUMAINE. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.

LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector’s.

DUMAINE. More calf, certain.

BOYET. No, he is best endued 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 breathed that certain he would fight, yea, 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. Loves her by the foot.

DUMAINE. He may not by the yard.

ARMADO. _This Hector far surmounted Hannibal. The party is gone_—

COSTARD. Fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way.

ARMADO. What meanest thou?

COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, 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 he 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 he wears next his heart for a favour.

Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé.

MARCADÉ. God save you, madam.

PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcadé, But that thou interruptest our merriment.

MARCADÉ. I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—

PRINCESS. Dead, for my life!

MARCADÉ. 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 over-boldly 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 too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained.

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 jostle it From what it purposed; 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, Played foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seemed ridiculous— As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Formed 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 parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both—fair ladies, you. And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

PRINCESS. We have received your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And in our maiden council rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time. But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment.

DUMAINE. Our letters, madam, showed much more than jest.

LONGAVILLE. So did our looks.

ROSALINE. We did not quote them so.

KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves.

PRINCESS. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjured much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this: If for my love—as there is no such cause— You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust, but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world, There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood; If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love; Then, at the expiration of the year, Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine. And, till that instance, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father’s death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither entitled in the other’s heart.

KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence hermit, then. My heart is in thy breast.

[_They converse apart_]

DUMAINE. And what to me, my love? But what to me? A wife?

KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three.

DUMAINE. O, shall I say, “I thank you, gentle wife”?

KATHARINE. No so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day I’ll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.

DUMAINE. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

[_They converse apart_]

LONGAVILLE. What says Maria?

MARIA. At the twelvemonth’s end I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

LONGAVILLE. I’ll stay with patience, but the time is long.

MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young.

[_They converse apart_]

BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me. Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love.

ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impossible. Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

ROSALINE. 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, Deafed with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal; But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation.

BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

PRINCESS. [_To the King_.] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.

KING. No, madam, we will bring you on your way.

BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play. Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy.

KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then ’twill end.

BEROWNE. That’s too long for a play.

Enter Armado, the Braggart.

ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me—

PRINCESS. Was not that Hector?

DUMAINE. The worthy knight of Troy.

ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show.

KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

ARMADO. Holla! Approach.

Enter all.

This side is _Hiems_, Winter; this _Ver_, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, th’ other by the cuckoo. _Ver_, begin.

The Song

SPRING. When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men; for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way, we this way.

[_Exeunt._]