_Prin._ 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. _Prin._ Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile. 90 _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 bookmates. _Prin._ Thou fellow, a word: Who gave thee this letter? _Cost._ I told you; my lord. _Prin._ To whom shouldst thou give it? _Cost._ From my lord to my lady. 95 _Prin._ From which lord to which lady? _Cost._ From my lord Biron, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline. _Prin._ Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [_To Ros._] Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another 100 day. [_Exeunt Princess and train._ _Boyet._ Who is the suitor? who is the suitor? _Ros._ Shall I teach you to know? _Boyet._ Ay, my continent of beauty. _Ros._ 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. 105 Finely put on! _Ros._ Well, then, I am the shooter. _Boyet._ And who is your deer? _Ros._ If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on, indeed! _Mar._ You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. 110 _Boyet._ But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now? _Ros._ Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? _Boyet._ So I may answer thee with one as old, that was 115 a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. _Ros._ Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. _Boyet._ An I cannot, cannot, cannot, 120 An I cannot, another can. [_Exeunt Ros. and Kath._ _Cost._ By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it! _Mar._ A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it. _Boyet._ A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be. 125 _Mar._ Wide o’ the bow-hand! i’ faith, your hand is out. _Cost._ Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout. _Boyet._ An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. _Cost._ Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. _Mar._ Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. 130 _Cost._ She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl. _Boyet._ I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. [ _Exeunt Boyet and Maria._