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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 art thou then?

Food for his rage, repasture for his den.”

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 ere-while.

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.

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.

Prin.

From which lord to which lady?

Cost.

From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline.

Prin.

Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.