Page 2412 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1
P. 2412
Sweet smoke of rhetoric!
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he.
I shoot thee at the swain.
MOTE
Thump then, and I flee.
Exit.
ARMADO
A most acute juvenal, voluble and free of grace!
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face. [65]
Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
My herald is returned.
Enter Mote with Costard.
MOTE
A wonder, master! Here’s a costard broken in a shin.
ARMADO
Some enigma, some riddle. Come, thy l’envoy - begin.
COST ARD
No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy, no salve in the [70] mail, sir! O, sir,
plantain, a plain plantain! No l’envoy, no l’envoy, no salve, sir, but a
plantain!
ARMADO
By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the
heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling! O, pardon me, my
stars! Doth [75] the inconsiderate take salve for l’envoy and the word
‘l’envoy’ for a salve?
MOTE
Do the wise think them other? Is not l’envoy a salve?
ARMADO
No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain [80]
Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.
I will example it:
