ARMADO.
Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me. I will not combat in my shirt.
DUMAINE.
You may not deny it. Pompey hath made the challenge.
ARMADO.
Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
BEROWNE.
What reason have you for ’t?
ARMADO.
The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance.
BOYET.
True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he wears next his heart for a favour.
Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé.
MARCADÉ.
God save you, madam.
PRINCESS.
Welcome, Marcadé,
But that thou interruptest our merriment.
MARCADÉ.
I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—