ROSALINE.
Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off!
BOYET.
My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou marry,
Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.
Finely put on!
ROSALINE.
Well, then, I am the shooter.
BOYET.
And who is your deer?
ROSALINE.
If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on indeed!
MARIA.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.
BOYET.
But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?
ROSALINE.
Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?
BOYET.
So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
ROSALINE.
Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.