Dum. No, cloven. Arm. Peace! The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, A man so breath'd, that certain he would fight, yea I am that flower, Dum. That mint. Long. That columbine. Arm. Sweet lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. Long. I must rather give it the rein; for it runs against Hector. Dum. Ay, and Hector's a greyhound. Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: when he breath'd, he was a man- -But I will forward with my device Sweet royalty, [To the Princess.] bestow on me the sense of hearing. [BIRON whispers Costard. Prin. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper. Boyet. Loves her by the foot. Dum. He may not by the yard. Arm. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal, Cost. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. Arm. What meanest thou? Cost. 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. Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? thou shalt die. Cost. Then shall Hector be 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! Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the huge! Dum. Hector trembles. Biron. Pompey is mov'd:-More Atès, more Atès ;' stir them on! stir them on! Dum. Hector will challenge him. [5] That is, more instigation. Atè was the mischievous goddess that incited bloodshed. JOHNSON. Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's 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 button-hole 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. Biron. 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 MERCADE. Mer. God save you, madam! Prin. Welcome, Mercade ; But that thou interrupt'st our merriment. Mer. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring [6] The weapons and armour which he wore in the character of Pompey. JOHNSON. [7] This may possibly allude to a story well known in our author's time, to this effect: A Spaniard at Rome falling in a duel, as he lay expiring, an intimate friend, by chance, came by, and offered him his best services. The dying man told him he had but one request to make him, but conjured him, by the memory of their past friendship, punctually to comply with it, which was, not to suffer him to be stript, but to bury him as he lay, in the habit he then had on. When this was promised, the Spaniard closed his eyes, and expired with great composure and resignation. But his friend's curiosity prevailing over his good faith, he had him stript, and found, to his great surprise, that he was without a shirt. WARBURTON. To go woolward, I believe was a phrase appropriated to pilgrims and penitentiaries. Skinner derives woolward from the Saxon wol, plague, secondarily any great distress, and weard, toward. Thus, says he, it signifies, "in magno discrimine & expectatione magni mali constitutus." I rather think it should be written wookward, and that it means clothed in wool, and not in linen. T. WARTON. Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father- Mer. Even so; my tale is told. Biron. 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. King. How fares your majesty ? [Exeunt Worthies. Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. King. Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay. King. The extreme parts of time extremely form And often, at his very loose, decides That which long process could not arbitrate : The holy suit which fain it would convince; 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 double. Biron. 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 [8] Liberal-Free to excess. STEEVENS. 7 As love is full of unbefitting strains; All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain; Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; 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. Dum. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. Ros. We did not quote them so. King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. Prin. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in ? That is, tempted us. JOHNSON. This line is obscure. Bombast was a kind of loose texture not unlike what is now called wadding, used to give the dresses of that time bulk and protuberance, without much increase of weight; whence the same name is given to a tumour of words unsupported by solid sentiment. The princess, therefore, says, that they considered this courtship as but bombast, as something to fill out life, which not be ing closely united with it, might be thrown away at pleasure. JOHNSON. * Remote from all the pleasures of the world; Change not your offer made in heat of blood; Come challenge, challenge me by these deserts; For the remembrance of my father's death. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, Hence ever then, my heart is in thy breast. [Biron. 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? Dum. O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife? Mar. At the twelvemonth's end, I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. concur to think [2] These six verses both Dr. Thirlby and Mr. Warburton should be expunged; and therefore I have put them between crotchets: not that they were an interpolation, but as the author's draught, which he afterwards rejected, and executed the same thought a little lower with much more spirit and els→ gance. THEOBALD. |