SCENE I. The same. Loves Labours Lost  Shakespeare homepage  |  Love's Labour's Lost  | Act 4, Scene 1 

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 Enter the PRINCESS, and her train, a Forester, BOYET, ROSALINE, MARIA, and KATHARINE  PRINCESS  Was that the king, that spurred his horse so hard 

 Against the steep uprising of the hill? 

 BOYET  I know not; but I think it was not he. 

 PRINCESS  Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind. 

 Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch: 

 On Saturday we will return to France. 

 Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush 

 That we must stand and play the murderer in? 

 Forester  Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; 

 A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. 

 PRINCESS  I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, 

 And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. 

 Forester  Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. 

 PRINCESS  What, what? first praise me and again say no? 

 O short-lived pride! Not fair? alack for woe! 

 Forester  Yes, madam, fair. 

 PRINCESS  Nay, never paint me now: 

 Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. 

 Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: 

 Fair payment for foul words is more than due. 

 Forester  Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 

 PRINCESS  See see, my beauty will be saved by merit! 

 O heresy in fair, fit for these days! 

 A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. 

 But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, 

 And shooting well is then accounted ill. 

 Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: 

 Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; 

 If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 

 That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. 

 And out of question so it is sometimes, 

 Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, 

 When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, 

 We bend to that the working of the heart; 

 As I for praise alone now seek to spill 

 The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. 

 BOYET  Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty 

 Only for praise sake, when they strive to be 

 Lords o'er their lords? 

 PRINCESS  Only for praise: and praise we may afford 

 To any lady that subdues a lord. 

 BOYET  Here comes a member of the commonwealth. 



 Enter COSTARD  COSTARD  God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? 

 PRINCESS  Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. 

 COSTARD  Which is the greatest lady, the highest? 

 PRINCESS  The thickest and the tallest. 

 COSTARD  The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth. 

 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 Biron 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 every one give ear. 



 Reads  BOYET  '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, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw 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 art 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 bookmates. 

 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 Biron, a good master of mine, 

 To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. 

 PRINCESS  Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. 



 To ROSALINE  Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day. 



 Exeunt PRINCESS and train  BOYET  Who is the suitor? who is the suitor? 

 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 Guinover 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 and KATHARINE  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' th' 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 a' 

 will swear! 

 And his page o' t' other side, that handful of wit! 

 Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit! 

 Sola, sola! 



 Shout within 

 Exit COSTARD, running  LOVE'S LABOURS LOST 

 Shakespeare homepage  |  Love's Labour's Lost  | Act 4, Scene 1 

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