COSTARD.
I told you: my lord.
PRINCESS.
To whom shouldst thou give it?
COSTARD.
From my lord to my lady.
PRINCESS.
From which lord to which lady?
COSTARD.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he called Rosaline.
PRINCESS.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.
[Exeunt all but Boyet, Rosaline, Maria and Costard.]
BOYET.
Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter?
ROSALINE.
Shall I teach you to know?
BOYET.
Ay, my continent of beauty.