Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! what fhall we do, If they return in their own fhapes to woo?

Rof. Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis❜d, Let's mock them ftill, as well known, as difguis'd; Let us complain to them what fools were here, Difguis'd, like Mofcovites, in * fhapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their fhallow Shows, and Prologue vildly pen'd, And their rough carriage fo ridiculous, Should be presented at our Tent to us.

Boyet. Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our Tents, as roes run o'er the land.

[Exeunt.

S CE N E

VII.

Before the Princess's Pavilion.

Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain in their own habits; Boyet, meeting them.

FAIR

KING.

CAIR Sir, God fave you! Where's the Princess? Boyet. Gone to her Tent.

Please it your Majefty, command me any fervice to her?

King. That fhe vouchfafe me audience for one word.

i. e. clouds which veil Angels: And by this means gave us, as the old proverb fays, a cloud for a Juno. It was Shakespear's purpose to compare a fine lady to an angel; it was Mr. Theobald's chance to compare her to a cloud: And perhaps the ill-bred reader will fay a lucky one. However I fuppofed the Poet could never be fo nonfenfical as to compare a masked lady to a cloud, though he might compare her mask to one. The Oxford Editor who had the advantage both of this emendation and criticifm, is a great deal more fubtile and refined, and fays it should not be angels veil'd in clouds, but angels veiling clouds, i. e. capping the fun as they go by him, juft as a man veils his bonnet.

*

Shapelefs gear;] Shapelefs, for uncouth, or what Shakespear elsewhere calls diffufed.

VO L. II.

Boyet.

Boyet. I will; and fo will she, I know my lord. [Exit. Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pidgeons peas; And utters it again, when Jove doth please: He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and waffals, meetings, markets, fairs: And we that fell by grofs, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with fuch fhow. This Gallant pins the wenches on his fleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lifp: why, this is he, That kift away his hand in courtefie; This is the ape of form, Monfieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms: nay, he can fing A mean moft mainly; and, in ufhering, Mend him who can; the ladies call him fweet; The ftairs, as he treads on them, kifs his feet. 7 This is the flower, that fmiles on every one, To fhew his teeth, as white as whale his bone.

And

This is the flower, that fmiles on ev'ry one,] The broken disjointed metaphor is a fault in writing. But in order to pass a true judgment on this fault, it is still to be obferved, that when a metaphor is grown fo common as to defert, as it were, the figurative, and to be received into the common ftile, then what may be affirmed of the thing represented, or the fubftance, may be affirmed of the thing reprefenting, or the image. To illuftrate this by the inftance before us, a very complaifant, finical, over-gracious perfon, was fo commonly called the flower, or as he elfewhere expreffes it, the pink of courtefie, that in common talk, or in the loweft ftile, this metaphor might be used without keeping up the image, but any thing affirmed of it as of an agnomen hence it might be faid, without offence, to mile, to flatter, &c. And the reafon is this; in the more folemn, lefs-used metaphors, our mind is fo turned upon the image which the metaphor conveys, that it expects, this image fhould be, for fome little time, continued, by terms proper to keep it in view. And if, for want of these terms, the image be no fooner prefented than difmiffed, the mind fuffers a kind of violence by being drawn off abruptly and unexpectedly from its contemplation. Hence it is

that

And confciences, that will not die in debt,
Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

King. A blifter on his fweet tongue with my heart, That put Armado's Page out of his Part!

Enter the Princefs, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine,
Boyet, and attendants.

Biron. See, where it comes; behaviour, what wert thou,

'Till this man fhew'd thee? and what art thou now? King. All hail, fweet Madam, and fair time of day!

Prin. Fair in all hail is foul, as I conceive. King. Conftrue my speeches better, if you may. Prin. Then with me better, I will give you leave.

that the broken, disjointed, and mix'd metaphor fo much shocks us. But when it is once become worn and hacknied by common ufe, then even the very first mention of it is not apt to excite in us the reprefentative image; but brings immediately before us the idea of the thing reprefented. And then to endeavour to keep up and continue the borrow'd ideas, by right adapted terms, would have as ill an effect on the other hand: Because the mind is already gone off from the image to the substance. Grammarians would do well to confider what has been here faid when they fet upon amending Greek and Roman writings. For the much-ufed hacknied metaphors being now very imperfectly known, great care is required not to act in this cafe temerarioufly.

8

behaviour, what wert thou,

'Till this man fhew'd thee? and what art thou now?] These are two wonderfully fine lines, intimating that what courts call manners, and value themselves fo much upon teaching, as a thing no where else to be learnt, is a modeft filent accomplishment under the direction of nature and common fenfe, which does its office in promoting focial life without being taken notice of. But that when it degenerates into fhew and parade it becomes an unmanly contemptible quality.

King.

King. We come to vifit you, and purpose now
To lead you to our Court; vouchfafe it then.
Prin. This field fhall hold me, and fo hold your

Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur❜d men.

King. Rebuke me not for That, which you provoke; 9 The virtue of your eye muft break my oath. Prin. You nick-name virtue; vice you should have spoke:

For virtue's office never breaks mens troth.
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unfully'd lilly, I proteft,

A world of torments though I fhould endure,
I would not yield to be your houfe's guest;
So much I hate a breaking caufe to be
Of heav'nly oaths, vow'd with integrity.
King. O, you have liv'd in defolation here,
Unfeen, unvifited, much to our shame.
Prin. Not fo, my lord; it is not so, I swear;
We have had paftimes here, and pleasant game,
A mess of Ruffians left us but of late.

King. How, Madam? Ruffians?.

Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state.
Rof. Madam, fpeak true. It is not fo, my lord:
My lady (to the manner of the days)

In courtefie gives undeferving praise.

We four, indeed, confronted were with four
In Ruffian habit: here they ftay'd an hour,
And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,
They did not bless us with one happy word,

9 The virtue of your eye MUST break my oath.] Common fenfe requires us to read,

MADE break my oath,

And then the reply is pertinent.

i. e. made me. It was the force of your beauty that made me break my oath, therefore you ought not to upbraid me with a crime which you yourself was the

cause of.

I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.
Biron. This jeft is dry to me. Fair, gentle, fweet,
Your wit makes wife things foolish; when we greet
With eyes best seeing heaven's fiery eye,

By light we lofe light; your capacity

Is of that nature, as to your huge store

Wise things feem foolish, and rich things but poor. Rof. This proves you wife and rich; for in my eyeBiron. I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Rof. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to fnatch words from my tongue. Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I poffefs. Rof. All the fool mine?

Biron. I cannot give you

lefs.

Rof. Which of the vizors was it, that you wore? Biron. Where? when? what vizor? why demand you this?

Rof. There, then, that vizor, that fuperfluous Cafe, That hid the worse, and fhew'd the better face.

King. We are defcried; they'll mock us now downright.

Dum. Let us confefs, and turn it to a jeft.

Prin. Amaz'd, my lord? why looks your Highnefs fad?

Rof. Help, hold his brows, he'll fwoon: why look you pale?

Sea-fick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

Biron. Thus pour the ftars down plagues for Perjury.

Can any face of brafs hold longer out? Here ftand I, lady, dart thy skill at me;

Bruise me with fcorn, confound me with a flout, Thrust thy fharp wit quite through my ignorance; Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;

And I will with thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Ruffian habit wait.

O!