BIRON The king he is hunting the deer...

BIRON

The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing

myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling 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 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!

[Stands aside]

[Enter FERDINAND, with a paper]

FERDINAND

Ay me!

BIRON

[Aside] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid:

thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the

left pap. In faith, secrets!

FERDINAND

[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 shinest 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]

What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.

BIRON

Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

[Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper]

LONGAVILLE

Ay me, I am forsworn!

BIRON

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

FERDINAND

In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

BIRON

One drunkard loves another of the name.

LONGAVILLE

Am I the first that have been perjured so?

BIRON

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.

BIRON

O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:

Disfigure not his slop.

LONGAVILLE

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,

Exhalest 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

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' the way.

LONGAVILLE

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

[Steps aside]

BIRON

All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demigod here sit I in the sky.

And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'ereye.

More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish!

[Enter DUMAIN, with a paper]

Dumain transform'd! four woodcocks in a dish!

DUMAIN

O most divine Kate!

BIRON

O most profane coxcomb!

DUMAIN

By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye!

BIRON

By earth, she is not, corporal, there you lie.

DUMAIN

Her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted.

BIRON

An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.

DUMAIN

As upright as the cedar.

BIRON

Stoop, I say;

Her shoulder is with child.

DUMAIN

As fair as day.

BIRON

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

DUMAIN

O that I had my wish!

LONGAVILLE

And I had mine!

FERDINAND

And I mine too, good Lord!

BIRON

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 remember'd be.

BIRON

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.

BIRON

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 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, Biron, and Longaville,

Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,

Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note;

For none offend where all alike do dote.

LONGAVILLE

[Advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity.

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

To be o'erheard and taken napping so.

FERDINAND

[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, observed 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 Biron say when that he shall hear

Faith so 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.

[Advancing]

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 perjured, '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 foolery 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!

FERDINAND

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?

BIRON

Not you to me, but I betray'd by you:

I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin

To break the vow I am engaged in;

I am betray'd, by keeping company

With men like men of inconstancy.

When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?

Or groan for love? 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?

FERDINAND

Soft! whither away so fast?

A true man or a thief that gallops so?

BIRON

I post from love: good lover, let me go.