Biron. A fever in your blood! why, then incision Would let her out in saucers; sweet misprision! [Aside. Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. Biron. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit. [Aside. Dum. On a day, (alack the day!) Love, whose month is ever May, That I am forsworn for thee;— And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I send; and something else more plain, Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note; For none offend, where all alike do dote. Long. Dumain, [advancing.] thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief desir'st society. 1 The old copy reads "Thou for whom Jove would swear." Pope thought this line defective, and altered it to You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, King. Come, sir, [advancing.] you blush; as his your case is such; You chide at him, offending twice as much. [TO LONG. And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath. [TO DUMAIN. What will Birón say, when that he shall hear I would not have him know so much by me. [Descends from the tree. 1 Alluding to a passage in the king's sonnet- O, what a scene of foolery I have seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!1 Where lies thy grief, O tell me, good Dumain? King. Too bitter is thy jest. King. Soft; whither away so fast? A true man, or a thief, that gallops so? Biron. I post from love; good lover, let me go. Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD. Jaq. God bless the king! King. What present hast thou there? Cost. Some certain treason. King. 1 Grief. What makes treason here? 4 2 Gnat is the reading of the old copy, and there seems no necessity for changing it to knot or any other word, as some of the editors have been desirous of doing. 3 A bird is said to be pruning himself when he picks and sleeks his feathers. 4 That is "What does treason here?" Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. King. If it mar nothing neither, The treason, and you, go in peace away together. Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read; Our parson misdoubts it; 'twas treason, he said. King. Biron, read it over. Where hadst thou it? Jaq. Of Costard. King. Where hadst thou it? [Giving him the letter. Cost. Of dun Adramadio, dun Adramadio. King. How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it? Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy; your grace needs not fear it. Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it. Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. [Picks up the pieces. Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead. [To CosTARD.] You were born to do me shame.Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess. King. What? Biron. That you three fools lacked me fool to make up the mess. He, he, and you, my liege, and I, Are pickpurses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. Biron. Will these turtles be gone? King. True, true; we are four. Hence, sirs; away. Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors Exeunt CoST. and JAQ. stay. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood will not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore, of all hands,' must we be forsworn. 1 i. e. at any rate, at all events. King. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline, That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head; and, strucken blind, Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her majesty? King. What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She, an attending star, scarce seen a light. Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Birón. O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the culled sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek; Where several worthies make one dignity; Where nothing wants; that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not. To things of sale a seller's praise belongs; She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A withered hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye. And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy. O, who can give an oath? Where is a book? No face is fair, that is not full so black. |