Love's Labour's Lost
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.
PRINCESS.
What’s your will, sir? What’s your will?
COSTARD.
I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.
PRINCESS.
O, thy letter, thy letter! He’s a good friend of mine.
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve.
Break up this capon.
BOYET.
I am bound to serve.
This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.
It is writ to Jaquenetta.
PRINCESS.
We will read it, I swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and everyone give ear.
BOYET.
[_Reads_.] _By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that
thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than
fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have
commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most
illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate
beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say,_ “Veni, vidi,
vici,” _which to annothanize in the vulgar—O base and obscure
vulgar!_—videlicet, _He came, see, and overcame. He came, one; see,
two; overcame, three. Who came? The King. Why did he come? To see. Why
did he see? To overcome. To whom came he? To the beggar. What saw he?
The beggar. Who overcame he? The beggar. The conclusion is victory. On
whose side? The King’s. The captive is enriched. On whose side? The
beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial. On whose side? The King’s? No,
on both in one, or one in both. I am the King, for so stands the
comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I
command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I
entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? Robes. For
tittles? Titles. For thyself? Me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane
my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every
part.
Thine in the dearest design of industry,
Don Adriano de Armado.
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey.
Submissive fall his princely feet before,
And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den._
PRINCESS.
What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?
BOYET.
I am much deceived but I remember the style.
PRINCESS.
Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.
BOYET.
This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court,
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his book-mates.
PRINCESS.
Thou, fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter?
COSTARD.
I told you: my lord.
PRINCESS.
To whom shouldst thou give it?
COSTARD.
From my lord to my lady.
PRINCESS.
From which lord to which lady?
COSTARD.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he called Rosaline.
PRINCESS.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.
[_Exeunt all but Boyet, Rosaline, Maria and Costard._]
BOYET.
Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
ROSALINE.
Shall I teach you to know?
BOYET.
Ay, my continent of beauty.
ROSALINE.
Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off!
BOYET.
My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou marry,
Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.
Finely put on!
ROSALINE.
Well, then, I am the shooter.
BOYET.
And who is your deer?
ROSALINE.
If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on indeed!
MARIA.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.
BOYET.
But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?
ROSALINE.
Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King
Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?
BOYET.
So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen
Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
ROSALINE.
Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.
BOYET.
An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
An I cannot, another can.
[_Exeunt Rosaline._]
COSTARD.
By my troth, most pleasant. How both did fit it!
MARIA.
A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.
BOYET.
A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!
Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be.
MARIA.
Wide o’ the bow hand! I’ faith, your hand is out.
COSTARD.
Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.
BOYET.
An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
COSTARD.
Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.
MARIA.
Come, come, you talk greasily, your lips grow foul.
COSTARD.
She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir. Challenge her to bowl.
BOYET.
I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.
[_Exeunt Boyet and Maria._]
COSTARD.
By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown!
Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!
O’ my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit,
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.
Armado, o’ the one side, O, a most dainty man!
To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!
To see him kiss his hand and how most sweetly he will swear!
And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit!
Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.
[_Shout within._]
Sola, sola!
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. The same
Enter Dull, Holofernes, the Pedant and Nathaniel.
NATHANIEL.
Very reverend sport, truly, and done in the testimony of a good
conscience.
HOLOFERNES.
The deer was, as you know, _sanguis_, in blood, ripe as the pomewater,
who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of _caelo_, the sky, the
welkin, the heaven, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of
_terra_, the soil, the land, the earth.
NATHANIEL.
Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a
scholar at the least. But, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first
head.
HOLOFERNES.
Sir Nathaniel, _haud credo_.
DULL.
’Twas not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket.
HOLOFERNES.
Most barbarous intimation! Yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, _in
via_, in way, of explication; _facere_, as it were, replication, or
rather, _ostentare_, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his
undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather,
unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my _haud
credo_ for a deer.
DULL.
I said the deer was not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket.
HOLOFERNES.
Twice-sod simplicity, _bis coctus!_
O, thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!
NATHANIEL.
Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book.
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink.
His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible
in the duller parts.
And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be—
Which we of taste and feeling are—for those parts that do fructify in
us more than he.
For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,
So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school.
But, _omne bene_, say I, being of an old father’s mind;
Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
DULL.
You two are bookmen. Can you tell me by your wit
What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet?
HOLOFERNES.
Dictynna, goodman Dull. Dictynna, goodman Dull.
DULL.
What is Dictynna?
NATHANIEL.
A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.
HOLOFERNES.
The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,
And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.
Th’ allusion holds in the exchange.
DULL.
’Tis true, indeed. The collusion holds in the exchange.
HOLOFERNES.
God comfort thy capacity! I say, th’ allusion holds in the exchange.
DULL.
And I say the pollution holds in the exchange, for the moon is never
but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the
Princess killed.
HOLOFERNES.
Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the
deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the Princess killed
a pricket.
NATHANIEL.
_Perge_, good Master Holofernes, _perge_, so it shall please you to
abrogate scurrility.
HOLOFERNES.
I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility.
The preyful Princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket;
Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting.
The dogs did yell, put “l” to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket;
Or pricket sore, or else sorel, the people fall a-hooting.
If sore be sore, then “L” to “sore” makes fifty sores o’ sorel.
Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more “L”.
NATHANIEL.
A rare talent!
DULL.
[_Aside_.] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.
HOLOFERNES.
This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant
spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions,
motions, revolutions. These are begot in the ventricle of memory,
nourished in the womb of _pia mater_, and delivered upon the mellowing
of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I
am thankful for it.
NATHANIEL.
Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners, for their
sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly
under you. You are a good member of the commonwealth.
HOLOFERNES.
_Mehercle!_ If their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction;
if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, _vir sapit
qui pauca loquitur_. A soul feminine saluteth us.
Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.
JAQUENETTA.
God give you good morrow, Master Person.
HOLOFERNES.
Master Person, _quasi_ pierce one. And if one should be pierced, which
is the one?
COSTARD.
Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.
HOLOFERNES.
Of piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth;
fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine. ’Tis pretty; it is
well.
JAQUENETTA.
Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter. It was given me
by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it.
[_Giving a letter to Nathaniel._]
HOLOFERNES.
_Fauste precor, gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat_—
and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan, I may speak of thee as the
traveller doth of Venice:
_Venetia, Venetia,
Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia._
Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not.
[_He sings_.]
Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.
Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? Or rather as Horace says in
his—What, my soul, verses?
NATHANIEL.
Ay, sir, and very learned.
HOLOFERNES.
Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse,
_Lege, domine_.
NATHANIEL.
[_Reads_.]
_If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed.
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll faithful prove.
Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice.
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire.
Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong,
That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue._
HOLOFERNES.