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You put our page out: go, you are allow'd;
Die when you will, a smock shall be your
shroud. You leer upon me, do you? there's an eye Wounds like a leaden sword.
Boyet. Full merrily,
Brave manager, hath this career been run.
Biron. Lo, he is tilting straight. Peace! I have done.
Welcome, pure wit! thou parteft a fair fray.
Cost. O lord, fir, they would know
Whether the three worthies shall come in, or no.
Biron. What, are there but three?
Coft. No, fir; but it is very fine; For every ône presents three.
Biron. And three times thrice is nine?
Cost. Not so, sir, under correction, sir, I hope, it is not so. You cannot beg us, fir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know: I hope, three times thrice, sir
Biron. Is not nine.
Coft. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.
Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
Coft. O lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, fir.
Biron. How much is it? Coft. O lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, fir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for my own part, I am, as they say, but to perfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the great, sir.
Biron. Art thou one of the worthies?
Coft. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the great: for mine own part, I know not the degree of the worthy; but I am to stand for him.
Biron. Go, bid them prepare.
Coft. We will turn it finely off, sir, we will take some care.
King. Biron, they will shame us; let them not approach.
Biron. We are shame-proof, my lord; and 'tis some policy
To have one show worse than the king and his company.
King. I say, they shall not come.
Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now;
That sport best pleases that doth least know how.
Where zeal strives to content, and the content
Dies in the zeal of that it doth present;
Their form confounded makes most form in mirth;
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord.
Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expence of thy royal sweet
breath, as will utter a brace of words.
Prin. Doth this man serve god?
Biron. Why ask you?
Prin. He speaks not like a man of god's making.
Arm. That's all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical : too, too vain, too, too vain; but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna della guerra.
peace of mind, most royal couplement. King. Here is like to be a good presence of worthies : he presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the great;
parish-curate, Alexander; Armado's page, Hercules; the pedant,
Judas Maccabeus :
And if these four worthies in their first show thrive,
These four will change habits, and present the other five.
Biron. There are five in the first Thow.
King. You are deceiv’d, 'tis not so.
Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool,
and the boy.
A bare throw at novem, and the whole world again
Cannot prick out five such, take each one in his vein.
King. The ship is under fail, and here she comes amain.
Enter Costard for Pompey.
Coff. I Pompey am.
Boyet. You lie, you are not he.
Coft. I Pompey am.
Boyet. With libbard's head on knee.
Biron. Well said, old mocker ;
I must needs be friends with thee.
Coft. I Pompey am, Pompey surnam’d the big.
Dum. The great.
Coft. It is great, sir; Pompey, surnam'd the great;
That oft in field, with targe and field,
Did make my foe to sweat :
And travelling along this coast, I bere 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.
Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey.
Coft. 'Tis not so much worth; but, I hope, I was perfect. I
made a little fault in great.
Biron. My hat to a half-peny, Pompey proves the best worthy.
Enter Nathaniel for Alexander.
Nath. When in the world I liv’d, I was the world's commander:
By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might:
My escutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander.
Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands not right.
Biron. Your nose smells no, in this most tender smelling knight.
Prin. The conqueror is dismay’d: proceed, good Alexander.
Nath. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander.
Boyet. Most true, 'tis right; you were so, Alifander.
Biron. Pompey the great!
Cost. Your servant, and Costard.
Biron. Take away the conqueror,
away Alisander. Coft. O fir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror. [to Nath.] You will be scrap'd out of the painted cloth for this; your lion, that holds the poll-ax sitting on a clofestool, will be given to
Ajax; · he will be then the ninth worthy., A conqueror, and
afraid to speak ! run away for shame, Alifander. There, an't shall
please you; a foolish mild man, an honest man, look you, and
foon dash'd. He is a marvellous good neighbour, insooth, and a
very good bowler; but, for Alisander, alas, you see, how he's a
little o'er-parted: but there are worthies a coming will speak their
mind in some other fort.
Biron. Stand aside, good Pompey.
Enter Holofernes for Judas, and Moth for Hercules.
Hol. Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club kill'd Cerberus the 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.
Hol. Judas I am.
Dum. A Judas !
Hol. Not Iscariot, fir,
Judas I am, ycleped Maccabeus.
Dum. Judas Maccabeus clipt, is plain Judas.
Biron. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas ?
Hol. Judas I am.
Dum. The more shame for you, Judas.
Hol. What mean you,' fır?
Boyet. To make Judas hang himself.
Hol. Begin, fir; you are my elder.
Biron. Well follow'd, Judas was hang’d on an elder.
Hol. I will not be put out of countenance.
Biron. Because thou hast no face.
Hol. What is this?
Boyet. A cithern head.
Dum. The head of a bodkin.
• A ridicule upon the arms given to Alexander in the hiftory of the nine worthies; and it ends in a wretched quibble upon the words Ajax and A jakes.
Biron. A death's face in a ring.
Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
Boyet. The pummel of Cæsar's faulchion.
Dum. The carv’d-bone face on a flask.
Biron. Saint George's half cheek in a brooch.
Dum. Ay, in a brooch of lead.
Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a toothdrawer :
And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance.
Hol. You have put me out of countenance.
Biron. False; we have given thee faces.
Hol. But you have outfac'd them all.
Biron. 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?
Dum. For the latter end of his name.
Biron. For the ass to the Jude; give it him. Jud-as, away.
Hol. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.
Boyet. A light for monsieur Judas; it grows dark, he may
Prin. Alas, poor Maccabeus ! how he hath been baited!
Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles; here comes Hetor in arms.
Dum. Though my mocks come home to me, I will now be
King. HeEtor was but a Trojan in respect of this.
Boyet. But is this Hector ?
King. I think, Hextor was not so clean timber'd.
Long. His leg is too big for He&tor.
Dum. More calf, certain.
Boyet. No; he is best endu'd in the small.
Biron. This can't be Heator.
Dum. He's a god, or a painter; for he make faces.
Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift -
Dum. A gilt nutmeg:
Biron. A lemon.