Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice

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 speakst “the fairest shoot.”
Forester
Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
Princess
What, what? First praise me, and again say no?
O short-lived pride. Not fair? Alack, for woe!

Nay, never paint me now.
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Forester
Yes, madam, fair.
Princess
Nay, never paint me now.
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true.
 She gives him money.
Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
Forester
Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
Princess
See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow.
 He hands her a bow.
Now mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
Not wounding, pity would not let me do ’t;
If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
And out of question so it is sometimes:
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
When for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart;
As I for praise alone now seek to spill
The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill.
Boyet
Do not curst wives hold that self sovereignty
Only for praise’ sake when they strive to be
Lords o’er their lords?
Princess
Only for praise; and praise we may afford
To any lady that subdues a lord.