Kitabı oku: «Love's Labour's Lost», sayfa 3

ACT IV. SCENE I. The park

Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER

 
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so
      hard
    Against the steep uprising of the hill?
  BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whoe'er 'a was, 'a show'd a mounting mind.
    Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;
    On Saturday we will return to France.
    Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
    That we must stand and play the murderer in?
  FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
    A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I thank my beauty I am fair that shoot,
    And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.
  FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What, what? First praise me, and again say
no?
    O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe!
  FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay, never paint me now;
    Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
    Here, good my glass, take this for telling true:
                                             [ Giving him money]
    Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
  FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit.
    O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
    A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
    But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill,
    And shooting well is then accounted ill;
    Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
    Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;
    If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
    That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
    And, out of question, so it is sometimes:
    Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
    When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,
    We bend to that the working of the heart;
    As I for praise alone now seek to spill
    The poor deer's blood that my heart means no ill.
  BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty
    Only for praise sake, when they strive to be
    Lords o'er their lords?
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Only for praise; and praise we may afford
    To any lady that subdues a lord.
 

Enter COSTARD

 
  BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth.
  COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest
that
    have no heads.
  COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest?
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The thickest and the tallest.
  COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is
truth.
    An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
    One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.
    Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What's your will, sir? What's your will?
  COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one
    Lady Rosaline.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. O, thy letter, thy letter! He's a good
friend
      of mine.
    Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve.
    Break up this capon.
  BOYET. I am bound to serve.
    This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.
    It is writ to Jaquenetta.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We will read it, I swear.
    Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.
  BOYET. [Reads] 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most
infallible;
    true that thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art
lovely.
    More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than
truth
    itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The
    magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon
the
    pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was
that
    might rightly say, 'Veni, vidi, vici'; which to annothanize
in
    the vulgar, – O base and obscure vulgar! – videlicet, He came,
saw,
    and overcame. He came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who
came? -
    the king. Why did he come? – to see. Why did he see? – to
overcome.
    To whom came he? – to the beggar. What saw he? – the beggar.
Who
    overcame he? – the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose
    side? – the king's. The captive is enrich'd; on whose side? -
the
    beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial; on whose side? – the
    king's. No, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king,
for so
    stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy
    lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce
thy
    love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt
thou
    exchange for rags? – robes, for tittles? – titles, for thyself?
    -me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot,
my
    eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.
                  Thine in the dearest design of industry,
                                           DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.
 
 
    'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
    'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;
    Submissive fall his princely feet before,
    And he from forage will incline to play.
    But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?
    Food for his rage, repasture for his den.'
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What plume of feathers is he that indited
this
      letter?
    What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?
  BOYET. I am much deceived but I remember the style.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it
    erewhile.
  BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;
    A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
    To the Prince and his book-mates.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou fellow, a word.
    Who gave thee this letter?
  COSTARD. I told you: my lord.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. To whom shouldst thou give it?
  COSTARD. From my lord to my lady.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. From which lord to which lady?
  COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
    To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords,
      away.
    [To ROSALINE] Here, sweet, put up this; 'twill be thine
another
      day. Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN
  BOYET. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter?
  ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know?
  BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty.
  ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow.
    Finely put off!
  BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,
    Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.
    Finely put on!
  ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter.
  BOYET. And who is your deer?
  ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
    Finely put on indeed!
  MARIA. You Still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at
the
    brow.
  BOYET. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now?
  ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a
man
    when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the
hit
    it?
  BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman
when
    Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the
hit
    it.
  ROSALINE. [Singing]
            Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
            Thou canst not hit it, my good man.
  BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
            An I cannot, another can.
                                   Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE
  COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant! How both did fit it!
  MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it.
  BOYET. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!
    Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.
  MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out.
  COSTARD. Indeed, 'a must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the
    clout.
  BOYET. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
  COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.
  MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.
  COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her
to
    bowl.
  BOYET. I fear too much rubbing; good-night, my good owl.
                                          Exeunt BOYET and MARIA
  COSTARD. By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown!
    Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!
    O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit!
    When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so
fit.
    Armado a th' t'one side- O, a most dainty man!
    To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!
    To see him kiss his hand, and how most sweetly 'a will swear!
    And his page a t' other side, that handful of wit!
    Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!
    Sola, sola! Exit COSTARD
 

SCENE II. The park

From the shooting within, enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL

 
  NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the
testimony of
    a good conscience.
  HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe
as
    the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of
caelo,
    the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab
on
    the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth.
  NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly
    varied, like a scholar at the least; but, sir, I assure ye it
was
    a buck of the first head.
  HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.
  DULL. 'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.
  HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of
insinuation,
    as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it
were,
    replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his
    inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated,
    unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or ratherest
    unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a
deer.
  DULL. I Said the deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.
  HOLOFERNES. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus!
    O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!
  NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred
in
      a book;
    He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his
    intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only
sensible
    in the duller parts;
    And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful
should
      be-
    Which we of taste and feeling are- for those parts that do
      fructify in us more than he.
    For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a
fool,
    So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a
school.
    But, omne bene, say I, being of an old father's mind:
    Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
  DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit
    What was a month old at Cain's birth that's not five weeks
old as
      yet?
  HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull.
  DULL. What is Dictynna?
  NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.
  HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,
    And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.
    Th' allusion holds in the exchange.
  DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange.
  HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say th' allusion holds
in
    the exchange.
  DULL. And I say the polusion holds in the exchange; for the
moon is
    never but a month old; and I say, beside, that 'twas a
pricket
    that the Princess kill'd.
  HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph
on
    the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call the
deer
    the Princess kill'd a pricket.
  NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge, so it shall
please
    you to abrogate scurrility.
  HOLOFERNES. I Will something affect the letter, for it argues
    facility.
 
 
    The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing
      pricket.
    Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with
shooting.
    The dogs did yell; put el to sore, then sorel jumps from
thicket-
    Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.
    If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores o' sorel.
    Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L.
 
 
  NATHANIEL. A rare talent!
  DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with
a
    talent.
  HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a
foolish
    extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects,
    ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions. These are begot
in
    the ventricle of memory, nourish'd in the womb of pia mater,
and
    delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is
good in
    those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.
  NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my
    parishioners; for their sons are well tutor'd by you, and
their
    daughters profit very greatly under you. You are a good
member of
    the commonwealth.
  HOLOFERNES. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenious, they shall
want
    no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it
to
    them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine
saluteth
    us.
 

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD

JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master Person. HOLOFERNES. Master Person, quasi pers-one. And if one should be pierc'd which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master Schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat- and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not- Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. [Reads] 'If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong, That singes heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.' HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man. And why, indeed, 'Naso' but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.' Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the King; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the King; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away; the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. Exeunt

SCENE III. The park

Enter BEROWNE, with a paper his band, alone

 
  BEROWNE. The King he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself.
    They have pitch'd a toil: I am tolling in a pitch- pitch that
    defiles. Defile! a foul word. Well, 'set thee down, sorrow!'
for
    so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I am the fool.
Well
    proved, wit. By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it
kills
    sheep; it kills me- I a sheep. Well proved again o' my side.
I
    will not love; if I do, hang me. I' faith, I will not. O, but
her
    eye! By this light, but for her eye, I would not love her-
yes,
    for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie,
and
    lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love; and it hath taught me
to
    rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme,
and
    here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already;
the
    clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet
    clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not
    care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a
    paper; God give him grace to groan!
                                            [Climbs into a tree]
 

Enter the KING, with a paper

 
  KING. Ay me!
  BEROWNE. Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast
thump'd
    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 night of dew 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 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?
                                                   [Steps aside]
 

Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper

 
    What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, car.
  BEROWNE. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!
  LONGAVILLE. Ay me, I am forsworn!
  BEROWNE. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
  KING. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame!
  BEROWNE. One drunkard loves another of the name.
  LONGAVILLE. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?
  BEROWNE. I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know;
    Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
    The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.
  LONGAVILLE. 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.
  BEROWNE. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:
    Disfigure not his slop.
  LONGAVILLE. This same shall go. [He reads the sonnet]
      '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?'
  BEROWNE. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity,
    A green goose a goddess- pure, pure idolatry.
    God amend us, God amend! We are much out o' th' way.
 

Enter DUMAIN, with a paper

 
  LONGAVILLE. By whom shall I send this? – Company! Stay.
                                                   [Steps aside]
  BEROWNE. 'All hid, all hid'– an old infant play.
    Like a demigod 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!
    Dumain transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish!
  DUMAIN. O most divine Kate!
  BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb!
  DUMAIN. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye!
  BEROWNE. By earth, she is not, corporal: there you lie.
  DUMAIN. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted.
  BEROWNE. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.
  DUMAIN. As upright as the cedar.
  BEROWNE. Stoop, I say;
    Her shoulder is with child.
  DUMAIN. As fair as day.
  BEROWNE. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.
  DUMAIN. O that I had my wish!
  LONGAVILLE. And I had mine!
  KING. And I mine too,.good Lord!
  BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine! Is not that a good word?
  DUMAIN. I would forget her; but a fever she
    Reigns in my blood, and will rememb'red be.
  BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision
    Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision!
  DUMAIN. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
  BEROWNE. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit.
  DUMAIN. [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, 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 sin in me
        That I am forsworn for thee;
        Thou for whom 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, Berowne 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.
  LONGAVILLE. [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.
    'Ay me!' says one. 'O Jove!' the other cries.
    One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other's eyes.
    [To LONGAVILLE] You would for paradise break faith and troth;
    [To Dumain] And Jove for your love would infringe an oath.
    What will Berowne say when that he shall hear
    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.
  BEROWNE. [Descending] Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy,
    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; 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 sonneting.
    But are you not ashamed? 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 fool'ry have I seen,
    Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!
    O, 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!
  KING. Too bitter is thy jest.
    Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view?
  BEROWNE. Not you by me, but I betrayed to you.
    I that am honest, I that hold it sin
    To break the vow I am engaged in;
    I am betrayed by keeping company
    With men like you, men of inconstancy.
    When shall you see 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?
  BEROWNE. I post from love; good lover, let me go.
 

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD