Long. That cullambine.

Arm. Sweet lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Long. I muft rather give it the rein; for it runs againt Helior.

Dum. Ay, and Hector's a grey-hound.

Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten;
Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the bury'd:
But I will forward with my device;

Sweet royalty, beftow on me the fense of hearing.
Prin. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.
Arm. I do adore thy fweet Grace's flipper.
Boyet. Loves her by the foot.

Dam. He may not, by the yard.

Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal (51).
Coft. The party is gone,

fhe is two months on her way.

Arm. What mean'ft thou?

fellow Hector, she is gone;

Coft. Faith, unless you play the honeft Trojan, the poor wench is caft away; fhe's quick, the child brags in her belly already. "Tis yours.

Arm. Doft thou infamonize me among Potentates? Thou shalt die.

Coft. Then fhall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta, that is quick by him; and hang'd for Pompey, that is dead by him.

Dum. Moft 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 Ates, more Ates, fir them on, ftir them on.

be party is gone.]

All the editions ftupidly have plac'd these last words as part of Armado's fpeech in the interlude. I have ventur'd to give them to Coflard, who is for putting Armado out of his part, by telling him the party (i. e. his mistress Jaquenetta,) is gone two months with child by him.

Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's belly than will fup a flea.

Arm. By the north-pole, I do challenge thee.

Coft. I will not fight with a pole like a northern man: I'll flash; I'll do't by the fword: I pray you, let me borrow my arms again.

Dum. Room for the incenfed worthies.

Coft. I'll do't in my

shirt.

Dum. Moft refolute Pompey

Moth. Mafter, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not fee, Pompey is uncafing for the combat: what mean you? you will lofe your reputation..

Arm. Gentlemen, and foldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my fhirt.

Dum. You may not deny it, Pompey hath made the challenge.

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Biron. What reafon have you for't?

Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no fhirt; I go woolward for penance.

Boyet. True, (52) and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of linen; fince when, I'll be fworn he wore none, but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that he wears next his heat for a favour.

Enter Macard.

Mac. God fave you, Madam.

(52.) And it was injoin'd him in Rome for want of linen.] ShakeSpeare certainly alludes here to a famous ftory, a matter of fact that happen'd at Rome, fometime, I think, before his time. A Spaniard fell in a duel in his laft moments one of his most intimate friends chanc'd to come by, condol'd with him, and offer'd his best service. The dying perfon told him he had but one requeft to make to him, and conjur'd him by the memory of their long friendship punctually to comply with it which was, not to fuffer him to be ftript as ufual, but to bury him in the condition, and very habit he was then in. When this was promis'd, the Spaniard clos'd his eyes, with great compofure and fatisfaction. But his friend's curiofity prevail'd over his obligations, and defiring to know the reafon of fo uncommon a request, so earnestly prefs'd, he had him stripp'd; and found to his great furprize, he was without a fhirt. Mr. Warburton.

Prin. Welcome, Macard, but that thou interrupteft our merriment.

Mac. I'm forry, Madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father Prin. Dead, for my life,

Mac. Even fo: my tale is told.

Biron. Worthies, away; the scene begins to cloud. Arm. For my own part, I breathe free breath; I have feen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a foldier.

[Exeunt Worthies.

Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night.

King. Madam, not fo; I do befeech you, ftay.
Prin. Prepare, I fay. I thank you, gracious Lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,

Out of a new fad foul, that you vouchfafe
In your rich wisdom to excufe, or hide,
The liberal oppofition of our fpirits;
If over-boldly we have born ourselves
In the converfe of breath, your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy Lord;
An heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue: (53)
Excufe me fo, coming fo fhort of thanks,

For my great fuit so easily obtain'd.

King. The extreme part of time extremely forms All caufes to the purpose of his fpeed;

And often, at his very loofe, decides

That, which long process could not arbitrate.
And though the mourning brow of progeny
Forbid the fmiling courtesy of love,

The holy fuit which fain it would convince;
Yet fince love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of forrow juftle it

(53) An heavy heart bears not an humble tongue.] Thus all the editions; but, furely, without either fenfe or truth. None are more bumble in fpeech, than they who labour under any oppreffion. The Princess is defiring, her grief may apologize for her not expreffing her obligations at large; and my correction is conformable to that fentiment.

From

From what it purpos'd: fince, to wail friends loft,
Is not by much fo wholefome, profitable,

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin. I understand you not, my griefs are double. Biron. Honeft plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King,,

For your fair fakes have we neglected time,
Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, Ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to th' oppofed end of our intents;
And what in us hath feem'd ridiculous,
As love is full of unbefitting ftrains,

All wanton as a child, fkipping and vain,
Form'd by the eye, and therefore like the eye,
Full of ftraying fhapes, of habits, and of forms,
Varying in fubjects as the eye doth rowl,
To every varied object in his glance;
Which party-coated prefence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heav'nly eyes,
Have mifbecom'd our oaths and gravities;
Those heav'nly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make them: therefore, Ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewife yours. We to ourfelves prove false,
By being once falfe, for ever to be true

To thofe that make us both: fair Ladies, you:
And even that falfhood, in itself a fin,
Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace.

Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love,
Your favours, the embaffadors of love:
And in our maiden council rated them
At courtship, pleasant jeft, and courtefy;
As bombaft, and as lining to the time:
But more devout, than these are our refpects,
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.

Dum. Our letters, madam, fhew'd much more than jeft.

Long. So did our looks.

Roja. We did not coat them fo.

King. Now at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

Prin.

Prin. A time methinks, too fhort,

To make a world-without-end bargain in ;
No, no, my Lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltinefs; and therefore, this-
If for my love (as there is no fuch cause)
You will do ought, this fhall you do for me:
Your oath I will not truft; but go with speed
To fome forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;"
There ftay until the twelve celeftial figns
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this auftere infociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frofts, and fafts, hard lodging, and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy bloffoms of your love,

But that it bear this trial, and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come challenge me; challenge me, by these deserts ;
And by this virgin palm, now kiffing thine,

I will be thine; and 'till that inftant shut
My woeful felf up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation,

For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other's heart.

King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up thefe powers of mine with reft;
The fudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence, ever then, my heart is in thy breast. Biron. (54) [And what to me, my love? and what to me?

(54) Biron. [And what to me, my love? and what to me? Rofa. You must be purged too: your fins are rank: You are attaint with fault and perjury.

Therefore if you my favour mean to get,

A twelvemonth fhall you spend, and never reft,
But feck the weary beds of people fick.]

Rofa.

Thefe fix verfes both Dr. Thirlby and Mr. Warburton concur to think fhould be expung'd; and therefore I have put them between crotchets : not that they were an interpolation, fays theDoctor, but as the author's first draught, which he afterwards rejected; and executed the fame thought a little lower with much more fpirit and elegance. Mr. War

burton