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Mar. At the twelvemonth's end,

I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
Long. I'll ftay with patience; but the time is long.
Mar. The liker you; few taller are so young.
Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on me,
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye;
What humble fuit attends thy answer there;
Impose some service on me for thy love.

Rof. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,
Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;
Which you on all eftates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And, therewithal to win me, if you please,
(Without the which I am not to be won)
You shall this twelvemonth-term from day to day
Visit the speechlefs fick, and still converfe
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T'enforce the pained impotent to fmile.

Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be; it is impoffible:

Mirth cannot move a foul in agony.

Rof. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whofe influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:
A jeft's profperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if fickly ears,
Deaft with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle fcorns, continue then,
And I will have you, and that fault withal:
But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,

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And I shall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your reformation.

Biron. A twelvemonth? well, befall what will befall,
I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

Prin. Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.

King. No, madam; we will bring you on your way.
Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play;
Jack hath not Fill; thefe ladies' courtesy.
Might well have made our sport a comedy.

King. Come, fir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then 'twill end.

Biron. That's too long for a play.

Enter Armado.

Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me
Prin. Was not that Hector?

[to the king.

Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.

Arm. I will kifs thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her fweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? it should have follow'd in the end of our fhow.

King. Call them forth quickly; we will do fo.
Arm. Holla, approach!

Enter all.

This fide is Hiems, winter:

This Ver, the fpring: the one maintain'd by the owl,
The other by the cuckoo.

Ver, begin.


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VILLE DE LYON Biblioth. du Palais des Arts

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