King. Ah me!

Enter the King, with a paper.

Biron. [Aside.] Shot, by heaven !-Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap:In faith, secrets!

King. [Reads.] 'So sweet 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 dew of night that on my cheeks down flows:
Nor shines the silver 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 woe;

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through thy grief will shew:
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?

[Steps aside.

What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.

Long. Ah me! I am forsworn.

[Aside.

Biron. Why, he comes in like a perjure,18 wearing papers.

King. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame!

[Aside.

[Aside.

[Aside.

Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name.

Long. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?

Biron. [Aside.] I could put thee in comfort; not by two that I

know:

Thou mak'st the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
The shape of love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.
Long. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move:
O sweet Maria, empress of my love!

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

Biron. [Aside.] O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose: Disfigure not his slop.

Long.

This same shall go.

[Reads.] 'Did not the heavenly rhetoric 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 forswore; but I will prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is :

Then thou, fair sun, 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 wise,
To lose an oath to win a paradise?'

Biron. [Aside.] This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a

deity;

A green goose, a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.

Long. By whom shall I send this ?-Company! stay.

[Stepping aside. Biron. [Aside.] All hid, all hid, an old infant play : Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,

And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye.
More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have

my wish!

Enter DUMAIN, with a paper.

Dumain transform'd: four woodcocks in a dish!

Dum. O most divine Kate!

Biron.

O most profane coxcomb!

Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye!
Biron. By earth she is but corporal; there you lie.

[Aside.

[Aside.

Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber quoted.
Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.

Biron. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

Biron. Amen, so I had mine: is not that a good word?

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 incision
Would let her out in saucers; sweet misprision!

[Aside.

[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. [Reads.] 'On a day-alack the day!—

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan 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 sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop 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. [Advancing.] Dumain, thy love is far from charity,

That in love's grief desir'st society:

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,

To be o'erheard, and taken napping so.

King. [Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is

such;

You chide at him, offending twice as much :
You do not love Maria; Longaville
Did never sonnet for her sake compile ;
Nor never lay 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 sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:
Ah me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes:

You would for paradise break faith and troth;

[To LONGAVILLE.

And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.

[TO DUMAIN.

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 see,
I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.—

[Descends from the tree.

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me:
Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reprove
These worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes
do make no coaches; 19 in your tears,
There is no certain princess that appears:
You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing;
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonnetting.
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 I have seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen ! 20

0

me, with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat!

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,
And profound Solomon to tune a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic 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, ho!