Well, I will loue, write, sigh, pray, shue, grone,
Some men must loue my Lady, and some Ione.
Actus Quartus.
Enter the Princesse, a Forrester, her Ladies, and her Lords.
Qu. Was that the King that spurd his horse so hard,
Against the steepe vprising of the hill?
Boy. I know not, but I thinke it was not he
Qu. Who ere a was, a shew'd a mounting minde:
Well Lords, to day we shall haue our dispatch,
On Saterday we will returne to France.
Then Forrester my friend, Where is the Bush
That we must stand and play the murtherer in?
For. Hereby vpon the edge of yonder Coppice,
A stand where you may make the fairest shoote
Qu. I thanke my beautie, I am faire that shoote,
And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoote
For. Pardon me Madam, for I meant not so
Qu. What, what? First praise me, & then again say no.
O short liu'd pride. Not faire? alacke for woe
For. Yes Madam faire
Qu. Nay, neuer paint me now,
Where faire is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here (good my glasse) take this for telling true:
Faire paiment for foule words, is more then due
For. Nothing but faire is that which you inherit
Qu. See, see, my beautie will be sau'd by merit.
O heresie in faire, fit for these dayes,
A giuing hand, though foule, shall haue faire praise.
But come, the Bow: Now Mercie goes to kill,
And shooting well, is then accounted ill:
Thus will I saue my credit in the shoote,
Not wounding, pittie would not let me do't:
If wounding, then it was to shew my skill,
That more for praise, then purpose meant to kill.
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