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You put our page out: go, you are allow'd;

Die when you will, a fmock fhall be your fhroud.
You leer upon me, do you? there's an eye
Wounds like a leaden fword.

Boyet. Full merrily,

Brave manager, hath this career been run.

Biron. Lo, he is tilting ftraight. Peace! I have done.

Enter Coftard.

Welcome, pure wit! thou parteft a fair fray.
Coft. O lord, fir, they would know
Whether the three worthies fhall come in, or no.
Biron. What, are there but three?

Coft. No, fir; but it is very fine;

For every one presents three.

Biron. And three times thrice is nine?

Coft. Not fo, fir, under correction, fir, I hope, it is not fo. You cannot beg us, fir, I can affure you, fir; we know what we know: I hope, three times thrice, fir

Biron. Is not nine.

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Coft. Under correction, fir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

Coft. O lord, fir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, fir.

Biron. How much is it?

Coft. O lord, fir, 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, fir. 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 ftand for him.

Biron. Go, bid them prepare.

Coft. We will turn it finely off, fir, we will take fome care. King. Biron, they will fhame us; let them not approach.

[Exit Coft.

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Biron. We are fhame-proof, my lord; and 'tis fome policy
To have one show worse than the king and his company.
King. I fay, they fhall not come.

Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now;
That sport best pleases that doth least know how.
Where zeal ftrives to content, and the content
Dies in the zeal of that it doth prefent;

Their form confounded makes moft form in mirth;
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
Biron. A right defcription of our sport, my lord.

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Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expence of thy royal fweet breath, as will utter a brace of words.

Prin. Doth this man ferve god?

Biron. Why ask you?

Prin. He fpeaks not like a man of god's making.

Arm. That's all one, my fair, fweet, honey monarch; for, I proteft, the schoolmafter is exceeding fantastical: too, too vain, too, too vain but we will put it, as they fay, to fortuna della the

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guerra. I wish you peace of mind, most royal couplement. King. Here is like to be a good presence of worthies: he prefents Hector of Troy; the fwain, Pompey the great; the 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 show.

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 fuch, take each one in his vein.
King. The fhip is under fail, and here fhe comes amain.


Enter Coftard for Pompey.

Coft. I Pompey am.

Boyet. You lie, you are not he.

Coft. I Pompey am.

Boyet. With libbard's head on knee.

Biron. Well faid, old mocker;

I muft needs be friends with thee.

Coft. I Pompey am, Pompey furnam'd the big.
Dum. The great.

Coft. It is great, fir; Pompey, furnam'd the great;
That oft in field, with targe and fhield,

Did make my foe to fweat :

And travelling along this coaft, I here am come by chance;
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lafs of France.
If your ladyship would fay, thanks, Pompey, I had done.
Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey.

Coft. 'Tis not fo 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, weft, north, and fouth, I fpread my conquering might:
My efcutcheon plain declares that I am Alifander.

Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands not right.
Biron. Your nofe fmells no, in this most tender smelling knight.
Prin. The conqueror is difmay'd: proceed, good Alexander.
Nath. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander.
Boyet. Moft true, 'tis right; you were fo, Alifander.
Biron. Pompey the great!

Coft. Your fervant, and Coftard.

Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away Alifander. Coft. O fir, you have overthrown Alifander the conqueror. [to Nath.] You will be fcrap'd out of the painted cloth for this; your lion, that holds the poll-ax fitting on a clofeftool, will be given to

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Ajax; * he will be then the ninth worthy. A conqueror, and afraid to speak! run away for fhame, Alifander. There, an't shall please you; a foolish mild man, an honest man, look you, and foon dafh'd. He is a marvellous good neighbour, infooth, and a very good bowler; but, for Alifander, alas, you fee, how he's a little o'er-parted: but there are worthies a coming will speak their mind in fome other fort.

Biron. Stand afide, good Pompey.

Enter Holofernes for Judas, and Moth for Hercules.

Hol. Great Hercules is prefented by this imp,

Whose club kill'd Cerberus the three-headed canus;

And, when he was a babe, a child, a fhrimp,

Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus :

Quoniam, he feemeth in minority,

Ergo, I come with this apology.

Keep fome state in thy exit, and vanish.

Hol. Judas I am.

Dum. A Judas!

Hol. Not Ifcariot, fir,

Judas I am, ycleped Maccabeus.

Dum. Judas Maccabeus clipt, is plain Judas.

[Exit Moth.

Biron. A kiffing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas?

Hol. Judas I am.

Dum. The more fhame for you, Judas.

Hol. What mean you, fir?

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 haft 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.

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Biron. A death's face in a ring.

Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
Boyet. The pummel of Cæfar'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 fo.

Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so, adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why doft thou stay ?

Dum. For the latter end of his name.

Biron. For the afs to the Jude; give it him. Jud-as, away.
Hol. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

Boyet. A light for monfieur Judas; it grows dark, he may

Prin. Alas, poor Maccabeus! how he hath been baited!

Enter Armado.

Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles; here comes Hector in arms.
Dum. Though my mocks come home to me, I will now be


King. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.

Boyet. But is this Hector?

King. I think, Hector was not fo clean timber'd.

Long. His leg is too big for Hector.

Dum. More calf, certain.

Boyet. No; he is best endu'd in the small.

Biron. This can't be Hector.

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.


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