But is there no quick recreation granted?
KING.
Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted
With a refined traveller of Spain,
A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
One who the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony,
A man of complements, whom right and wrong
Have chose as umpire of their mutiny.
This child of fancy, that Armado hight,
For interim to our studies shall relate
In high-born words the worth of many a knight
From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate.
How you delight, my lords, I know not, I,
But I protest I love to hear him lie,
And I will use him for my minstrelsy.
BEROWNE.
Armado is a most illustrious wight,
A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.
LONGAVILLE.
Costard the swain and he shall be our sport,
And so to study three years is but short.
Enter Dull, a Constable, with a letter, and Costard.
DULL.
Which is the Duke’s own person?
BEROWNE.
This, fellow. What wouldst?
DULL.
I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s farborough. But I would see his own person in flesh and blood.
BEROWNE.
This is he.
DULL.
Signior Arm… Arm… commends you. There’s villainy abroad. This letter will tell you more.