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I will not fight with a pole like a Northren man; I’ll slash, I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you let me borrow my arms again.

      Dum. Room for the incens’d Worthies!

      Cost. I’ll do it in my shirt.

      Dum. Most resolute Pompey!

      Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.

      Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me, I will not combat in my shirt.

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

      Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

      Ber. What reason have you for’t?

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

      Boyet. True, and it was enjoin’d him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that ’a wears next his heart for a favor.

       Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcade.

       Marc.

      God save you, madam!

       Prin.

      Welcome, Marcade,

      But that thou interruptest our merriment.

       Marc.

      I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring

      Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—

       Prin.

      Dead, for my life!

       Marc.

      Even so: my tale is told.

       Ber.

      Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud.

      Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

       Exeunt Worthies.

       King.

      How fares your Majesty?

       Prin.

      Boyet, prepare, I will away to-night.

       King.

      Madam, not so, I do beseech you stay.

       Prin.

      Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

      For all your fair endeavors, and entreat,

      Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

      In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide,

      The liberal opposition of our spirits,

      If overboldly we have borne ourselves

      In the converse of breath—your gentleness

      Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!

      A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue.

      Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks

      For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

       King.

      The extreme parts of time extremely forms

      All causes to the purpose of his speed,

      And often, at his very loose, decides

      That which long process could not arbitrate.

      And though the mourning brow of progeny

      Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

      The holy suit which fain it would convince,

      Yet since love’s argument was first on foot,

      Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it

      From what it purpos’d; since to wail friends lost

      Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

      As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

       Prin.

      I understand you not, my griefs are double.

       Ber.

      Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief,

      And by these badges understand the King.

      For your fair sakes have we neglected time,

      Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,

      Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humors

      Even to the opposed end of our intents;

      And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous—

      As love is full of unbefitting strains,

      All wanton as a child, skipping and vain,

      Form’d by the eye and therefore like the eye,

      Full of straying shapes, of habits, and of forms,

      Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll

      To every varied object in his glance;

      Which parti-coated presence of loose love

      Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

      Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities,

      Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,

      Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,

      Our love being yours, the error that love makes

      Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false,

      By being once false for ever to be true

      To those that make us both—fair ladies, you;

      And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,

      Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

       Prin.

      We have receiv’d your letters full of love;

      Your favors, embassadors of love;

      And in our maiden council rated them

      At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy,

      As bombast and as lining to the time;

      But more devout than this [in] our respects

      Have we not been, and therefore met your loves

      In their own fashion, like a merriment.

       Dum.

      Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

       Long.

      So did our looks.

       Ros.

      We did not cote them so.

       King.

      Now at the latest minute of the hour,

      Grant us your loves.

       Prin.

      A time methinks too short

      To make a world-without-end bargain in.

      No,

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