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King. So fweet a kiss the golden fun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eye-beams when their fresh rays have fmote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows
Nor fhines the filver moon one half fo bright,
Through the transparent bofom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;
Thou shin'ft in every tear that I do weep;
No drop, but as a coach doth carry thee,
So rideft thou triumphing in my wo.
Do but behold the tears that fwell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show;
But do not love thyfelf, then thou wilt keep
My tears for glaffes, and ftill make me weep.
O queen of queens, how far doft thou excel!
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.
How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper;
Sweet leaves fhade folly. Who is he comes here?
What! Longaville! and reading! liften, ears!
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appears.
Long. Ay me! I am forfworn.
Biron. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
King. In love, I hope; fweet fellowship in fhame.
Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name.
Long. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?
Biron. I could put thee in comfort: not by two, that I know;
Thou mak'ft 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, emprefs of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in profe.
Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hofe:
Disfigure not his flop.
Long. This fame fhall go.
[be reads the fonnet.
Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye
('Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument)
Persuade my heart to this false perjury ?
Vows, for thee broke, deserve not punishment:
A woman I forfwore; but, I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forfwore not thee.
My vow was earthy, thou a heav'nly love:
Thy grace, being gain'd, cures all difgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:
Then thou fair fun, which on my earth doft fhine,
Exhal'ft this vapour-vow; in thee it is:
If broken then, it is no fault of mine;
If by me broke, what fool is not fo 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 fend this? (company!) ftay.
Biron. All hid, all hid, an old infant play :
Like a demi-god, here fit I in the sky;
And wretched fools' fecrets heedfully o'er-eye.
More facks to the mill? O heav'ns, I have my wifh,
Dumain is transform'd; four woodcocks in a dish.
Dum. O moft divine Kate!
Biron. O most profane coxcomb!
Dum. Thou heav'n! the wonder of a mortal eye!
Biron. By earth, fhe 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.
Biron. Stoop I fay;
Her fhoulder is with child.
Dum. As fair as day.
Biron. Ay, as fome days; but then no fun must shine. [afide.
Dum. O, that I had my wish!
Long. And I had mine ĺ
King. And mine too, good lord!
Biron. Amen, fo 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; fweet mifprifion!
Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
Biron. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit.
Dumain reads his fonnet.
On a day, alack the day!
Love, whofe month is ever may,
Spy'd a bloffom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air :
Through the velvet leaves, the wind,
All unseen, can paffage find,
That the lover, fick to death,
Wifh'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph fo!
But, alack, my hand is fworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet!
Youth fo apt to pluck a fweet.
Do not call it fin in me,
That I am forfworn for thee:
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiope 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 fasting 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'ft fociety :
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 bofom, 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, obferv'd your fashion;
Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your paffion.
Ay me! fays one; o Jove! the other cries;
Her hairs were gold, cryftal the other's eyes.
You would for paradise break faith and troth;
And Jove for your love would infringe an oath.
What will Biron fay, when that he shall hear
A faith infringed, which fuch zeal did fwear?
How will he fcorn? 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 fo much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrify.
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me.
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 fee:
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 Neftor 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 breast.
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 honeft, 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 ftrange inconftancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?
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 ftate, a brow, a breast, a waist,
A leg, a limb?
King. Soft! whither away fo faft?
A true man or a thief, that gallops fo?
Biron. I poft from love; good lover, let me go.