But if thou striue (poore soule) what art thou then?
Foode for his rage, repasture for his den
Qu. What plume of feathers is hee that indited this
Letter? What veine? What Wethercocke? Did you
euer heare better?
Boy. I am much deceiued, but I remember the stile
Qu. Else your memorie is bad, going ore it erewhile
Boy. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court
A Phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his Booke-mates
Qu. Thou fellow, a word.
Who gaue thee this Letter?
Clow. I told you, my Lord
Qu. To whom should'st thou giue it?
Clo. From my Lord to my Lady
Qu. From which Lord, to which Lady?
Clo. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a Lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline
Qu. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come Lords away.
Here sweete, put vp this, 'twill be thine another day.
Exeunt.
Boy. Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
Rosa. Shall I teach you to know
Boy. I my continent of beautie
Rosa. Why she that beares the Bow. Finely put off
Boy. My Lady goes to kill hornes, but if thou marrie,
Hang me by the necke, if hornes that yeare miscarrie.
Finely put on
Rosa. Well then, I am the shooter
Boy. And who is your Deare?
Rosa. If we choose by the hornes, your selfe come not
neare. Finely put on indeede
Maria. You still wrangle with her Boyet, and shee
strikes at the brow
Boyet.
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