Imatges de pàgina

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, Sir; Pompey, furnam'd the Great; That oft in field, with targe and shield,

Did make my foe to sweat:

And travelling along this coaft, I here am come by chance; And lay my arms before the legs of this fweet Lafs of France.

If your ladyfhip would say, "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-penny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Enter Nathaniel for Alexander.

Nath. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's

By east, weft, north and fouth, I spread my conquering might:

My 'Scutcheon plain declares, that I am Alifander. Boyet. Your nofe fays, no, you are not; for it ftands too right.

Biron. Your nose smells, no, in this, most tender fmelling Knight.

Prin. The Conqueror is difmaid: proceed, good

Nath. When in the world 1 liv'd, I was the world's

3 With Libbard's head on knee.] This alludes to the old heroic habits, which on the knees and fhoulders had ufually, by way of ornament, the refemblance of a Leopard's or Lion's head.

T 2


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 AliSander.

Coft. O Sir, you have overthrown Alifander the Conqueror. [to Nath.] You will be fcraped out of the painted cloth for this; your lion, that holds the pollax fitting on a clofe-ftool, will be given to A-jax; he will be then the ninth Worthy. A Conqueror, and afraid to fpeak? run away for fhame, Alifander. There, an't fhall 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 'tis a little o'erparted but there are Worthies a coming will speak their mind in fome other fort.

Biron. Stand afide, good Pompey.

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Enter Holofernes for Judas, and Moth for Hercules. Hol. Great Hercules is prefented by this imp, Whofe club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed


And when he was a babe, a child, a fhrimp,
Thus did he ftrangle ferpents in his manus :
Quoniam, he feemeth in minority;

Ergo, I come with this apology.

Keep some state in thy Exit, and vanish. [Exit Moth. Hol. Judas I am.

Dum. A Judas!

Hol. Not Ifcariot, Sir;

Judas I am, ycleped Machabeus.

Dum. Judas Machabeus clipt, is plain Judas.
Biron. A kiffing traitor. How art thou prov'd


Hol. Judas I am.

Dum. The more fhame for you, Judas.

* Hol.

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Hol. What mean you, Sir?
Boyet. To make Judas hang himself.

Hol. Begin, Sir, you are my elder.

Biron. Well follow'd; Judas was hang'd on an


Hol. I will not be put out of countenance.
Biron. Because thou haft no face.
Hol. What is this?

Boyet. A cittern head.

Dum. The head of a bodkin.
Biron. A death's face in a ring.

Long. The face of an old Roman coin, fcarce feen.
Boyet. The pummel of Cafar's faulchion.
Dum. The carv'd-bone face on a flask.
Biron. St. George's half-cheek in a brooch.
Dum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer;
And now, forward; for we have put thee in counte-


Hol. You have put me out of countenance.
Biron. False; we have given thee faces.
Hol. But you have out-fac'd them all.

Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do fo.
Boyet. Therefore as he is an ass, let him go.

And fo adieu, fweet Jude; nay, why doft thou ftay?
Dum. For the latter end of his name.
Biron. For the Afs to the Jude; give it him. Jud-as,


Hol. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. Boyet. A light for monfieur Judas; it grows dark, he may ftumble.

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

Enter Armado.

Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles, here comes Hector

in arms.


T 3

Dum. Tho' my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

King. Hector was but a Trojan in refpect of this.
Boyet. But is this Hector?

King. I think, Hector was not fo clean-timber'd.
Long. His leg is too big for Hedor.

Dum. More caif, certain.

Boyet. No; he is beft indu'd in the small.

Biron. This can't be Hector.

Dum. He's a God or a Painter, for he makes faces. Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the Almighty, Gave Hector a gift,

Dum. A gilt nutmeg.
Biron. A lemon.

Long. Stuck with cloves.

Dum. No, cloven.

Arm. The armipotent Mars, of launces the Almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man fo breath'd, that certain he would fight ye
From morn 'till night, out of his pavilion.
I am that Flower.

Dum. That mint.

Long. That cullambine.

Arm. Sweet lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. Long. I must rather give it the rein; for it runs against Hector.

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

Arm. The fweet 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, bestow on me the fenfe 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.

Dum. He may not, by the yard.

Arm. This Hector far furmounted Hannibal.
Coft. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone;


The is two months on her way.

Arm. What mean'ft thou?

Coft. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is caft away; the's quick, the child brags in her belly already. 'Tis '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 ftir them on, ftir them on.

Dum. Hector will challenge him.

Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's belly than will sup 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 Sword: I pray you, let me borrow my arms again.

Dum. Room for the incenfed Worthies.

Coft. I'll do it in my shirt.

Dum. Moft refolute Pompey!

Moth. Mafter, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do ye 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 reason have you for't?

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