BOYET. [_Reads_.] _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, see, and overcame. He came, one; see, 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 are 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 book-mates. 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 Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he called Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day. [_Exeunt all but Boyet, Rosaline, Maria and Costard._] BOYET. Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter? 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?