Par. She is.

Ber. Will she away to-night?

Par. As you'll have her.

Ber. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure. Given order for our horses; and to-night,

When I should take possession of the bride,

End, ere I do begin.2

Laf. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds, and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard, and thrice beaten. God save you, captain.

Ber. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur ?

Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's displeasure.

Laf. You have made shift to run into't, boots and spurs and all, like him that leap'd into the custard; and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.

3

Br. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord. Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe

2 In the old copies this line is printed, 166 And, ere I do begin;' as if it were a broken sentence. For the happy correction we are indebted to Mr. Collier, who took it from an old manuscript note in Lord Francis Egerton's copy of the first folio. As it is but putting an E for an A, and gives a sense at once clear and apt, we have no scruples in adopting it.

H.

3 It was a piece of foolery practised at city entertainments, when an allowed fool or jester was in fashion, for him to jump into a large deep custard set for the purpose, to cause laughter among the spectators. Ben Jonson mentions it in his play. The Devil is an Ass, Act i. sc. 1:

He may, perchance, in tail of a sheriff's dinner,
Skip with a rhyme on the table, from New-nothing.
And take his Almain-leap into a custard,

Shall make my lady mayoress and her sisters

Laugh all their hoods over their shoulders."

this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes: trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur : I have spoken better of you than you have or will deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil. [Exit.

Par. An idle lord, I swear.

Ber. I think not so.

Par. Why, do you know him?

Ber. Yes, I do know him well; and common

speech

Gives him a worthy pass.

Here comes my clog.

Enter HELENA.

Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king, and have procur'd his leave For present parting: only he desires

Some private speech with you.

Ber.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does
The ministration and required office

On my particular: prepar'd I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found

So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you,
That presently you take your way for home;
And rather muse than ask why I entreat you,
For my respects are better than they seem;
And my appointments have in them a need,
Greater than shows itself, at the first view,
To you that know them not. This to my mother
[Giving a letter
"Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so,
I leave you to your wisdom.

Hel.

Sir, I can nothing say,

But that I am your most obedient servant.
Ber. Come, come, no more of that.

Hel

And ever shall

With true observance seek to eke out that,

Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd

To equal my great fortune.

Ber.

My haste is very great.

Let that go:

Farewell; hie home.

Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon.
Ber.

Well, what would you say?

Hel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe;'
Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.

Ber.

What would you have?

Hel. Something, and scarce so much :— nothing,

indeed.

I would not tell you what I would, my lord — 'faith,

yes;

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

Ber. I pray you stay not, but in haste to horse. Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. Where are my other men? monsieur, farewell.

[Exit.

Ber. Go thou toward home; where I will never

come,

Whilst I can shake my sword, or hear the drum. – Away! and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio!

[Exeunt

4 Possess, or own.

Flourish.

ACT III.

SCENE I. Florence.

A Room in the DUKE's Palace.

Enter the DUKE of Florence, attended; French Envoy, French Gentleman, and Soldiers.

Duke. So that, from point to point, now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war;

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth, And more thirsts after.

Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom

Against our borrowing prayers.

Env.

Good my lord,

2

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,'
But like a common and an outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion: therefore, dare not
Say what I think of it; since I have found
Myself in my uncertain grounds to fail
As often as I guess'd.

Duke.

Be it his pleasure.

Env. But I am sure, the younger of our nature,'

sense.

That is, I cannot inform you of the reasons.

One not in the secret of affairs: so, inward in a contrary

3 As we say at present, our young fellows.

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for physic.

Duke.

Welcome shall they be;

And all the honours, that can fly from us,
Shall on them settle. You know your places well
When better fall, for your avails they fell.
To-morrow to the field.

[Flourish.

Exeunt

SCENE II. Rousillon.

A Room in the COUNTESS's Palace

Enter COUNTESS and Clown.

Count. It hath happen'd all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

Count. By what observance, I pray you?

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing; mend the ruff,' and sing; ask questions, and sing;. pick his teeth, and sing: I know a man, that had this trick of melancholy, sold a goodly manor for a song.

Count. Let me see what he writes, and when he

means to come.

[Opening a letter.

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, since I was at court our old ling and our Isbels o'the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o'the court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Count. What have we here?

The tops of the boots in Shakespeare's time turned down, and hung loosely over the leg. The folding part or top was the ruff. It was of softer leather than the boot, and often fringed.