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King. I think Hector was not so clean-timber’d.

Long. His leg is too big for Hector’s.

Dum. More calf, certain.

Boyet. No, he is best indu’d in the small.

Ber. This cannot be Hector.

Dum. He’s a god or a painter, for he makes faces.

Arm.

“The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift”—

Dum.

A [gilt] nutmeg.

Ber.

A lemon.

Long.

Stuck with cloves.

Dum.

No, cloven.

Arm.

Peace!—

“The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man so breathed, that certain he would fight, yea,

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower”—

Dum.

That mint.

Long.

That columbine.

Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

Dum. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten, sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried. When he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the Princess.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.