Bush, shoot

Love’s Labor’s Lost, [4.1.1-13]. Princess. “Was that the King that spurr’d his horse so hard/ Against the steep uprising of the hill?” Boyet. “I know not, but I think it was not he.” Princess. “Whoe’er ‘a was, ‘a show’d a mounting mind,/ Well, lords, today we shall have our dispath;/ On Saturday we will return to France./ Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush/ That we must stand and play the murderer in? Forester. “hereby upon the edge of yonder coppice,/ A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.” Princess. “I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,/ And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.” Forester. “Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.”

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