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¶

Enter the Princess, a Forester, her Ladies [Rosaline, Maria, Katherine], and her Lords, [among them Boyet].

Prin.

Was that the King that spurr’d his horse so hard

Against the steep-up rising of the hill?

For.

I know not, but I think it was not he.

Prin.

Whoe’er ’a was, ’a show’d a mounting mind.

Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;

[On] Saturday we will return to France.

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush

That we must stand and play the murtherer in?

For.

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice,

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

Prin.

I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.

For.

Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

Prin.

What, what? First praise me, and again say no?

O short-liv’d pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

For.

Yes, madam, fair.

Prin.

Nay, never paint me now;

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Here (good my glass), take this for telling true:

[Giving him money.]