King. So fweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows; Nor shines the filver moon one half so bright, Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light; Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop, but as a coach doth carry thee, So ridest thou triumphing in my wo. Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show;
But do not love thyself, then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel ! No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. How shall she know my griefs ? I'll drop the paper; Sweet leaves shade folly. Who is he comes here?
What! Longaville ! and reading! listen, ears! Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appears. Long. Ay me! I am forsworn.
Biron. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. King. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame. Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name.
Long. Am I the first that have been perjur'd fo?
Biron. I could put thee in comfort: not by two, that I know;
Thou mak'st the triumviry, the three-corner-cap of society, The shape of love's Tyburn, that hangs up fimplicity.
Long. I fear, these stubborn lines lack power to move:
O fweet Maria, empress of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in profe.
Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose :
Disfigure not his flop.
Long. This same shall go.
Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye ('Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument) Perfuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows, for thee broke, deserve not punishment: A woman I forswore; but, I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee. My vow was earthy, thou a heav'nly love : Thy grace, being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is :
Then thou fair fun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is :
If broken then, it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wife To lose an oath to win a paradife ?
Biron. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity: A green goose, a goddess: pure, pure idolatry. God amend us, god amend us! we are much out o'th' way.
Long. By whom shall I send this? (company!) stay. Biron. All hid, all hid, an old infant play :
Like a demi-god, here sit I in the sky;
And wretched fools' fecrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill? O heav'ns, I have my wish,
Dumain is transform'd; four woodcocks in a dish.
Biron. O most profane coxcomb!
Dum. Thou heav'n! the wonder of a mortal eye! Biron. By earth, she is but corporal, there you lie. Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber coted. Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.
Dum. As upright as the cedar.
Her shoulder is with child.
Biron. Ay, as some days; but then no fun must shine. [afide.
Dum. O, that I had my wish!
King. And mine too, good lord!
Biron. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word? [afide.
Dum. I would forget her, but a fever she
Reigns in my blood, and will remember'd be.
Biron. A fever in your blood! why then incifion
Would let her out in faucers; sweet misprision!
Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
Biron. Once' more I'll mark how love can vary wit.
On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month is ever may, Spy'd a blossom paffing fair, Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves, the wind, All unseen, can passage find, That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn, Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Vow, alack, for youth unmeet! Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it fin in me, That I am forsworn for thee :
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear, Juno but an Æthiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.
This will I send, and something else more plain, That shall express my true love's fafting pain :
O, would the King, Biron, and Longaville, Were lovers too! ill to example ill.
Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note: For none offend, where all alike do dote.
Long. Dumain, thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief defir'st society : You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o'erheard, and taken napping fo.
King. Come, fir, you blush? as his, your case is such;
You chide at him, offending twice as much. You do not love Maria? Longaville Did never fonnet for her fake compile? Nor never lay'd his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart? I have been closely shrouded in this bush, And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion; Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your passion. Ay me! says one; o Jove! the other cries; Her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes. You would for paradife break faith and troth; And Jove for your love would infringe an oath. What will Biron say, when that he shall hear A faith infringed, which such zeal did swear? How will he scorn? how will he spend his wit? How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it? For all the wealth that ever I did fee, I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrify.
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me. [coming forward.
Good heart, what grace haft thou thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears;
You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis an hateful thing; Tush; none but minstrels like of fonnetting. But are you not asham'd? nay, are you not All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot? You found his mote, the king your mote did see : But I a beam do find in each of three.
O, what a scene of foolery have I seen,
Of fighs, of groans, of forrow, and of teen ! O me, with what strict patience have I fat,
To fee a king transformed to a gnat!
To fee great Hercules whipping a gig, And profound Solomon tuning a jig! And Nestor play at pushpin with the boys,
And critick Timon laugh at idle toys! Where lies thy grief? o, tell me, good Dumain; And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? And where my liege's? all about the breaft. A caudle, hoa!
King. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betray'd thus to thy overview?
Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd by you. I, that am honest, I, that hold it fin To break the vow I am engaged in, I am betray'd by keeping company With vane-like men, of strange inconstancy. When shall you fee me write a thing in rhyme? Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time In pruning me? when shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb ?
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.
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