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:
Bnt 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, ear. Biron. [aside.] Now, in thy likeness one more focl appear!

Long. Ah me! I am forsworn.

Biron. [aside.] Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

King. [aside.] In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

Biron. [aside.] One drunkard loves another of the name.

Long. Am I the first that have been perjured 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.

[He reads the sonnet.]

This same shall go.—

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.
God amend us, God amend! we are much out o'

the way.

Enter DUMAIN, with a paper.

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!

wish;

O heavens, I have my

Dumain transform'd; four woodcocks in a

dish!

Dum. O most divine Kate!

Biron. [aside.]

O most profane coxcomb! Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye!

Biron. [aside.] By earth, she is not; corporal, there you lie.

Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber

coted.

Biron. [aside.] An amber-colour'd raven was

Biron. [aside.] Ay, as some days; but then no

sun must shine.

Dum. O that I had my wish!

Long. [aside.]

And I had mine!

King. [aside.] And I mine too, good lord!

Biron. [aside.] 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. [aside.] A fever in your blood! why,

then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision! Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.

Biron. [aside.] Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit.

Dum.

On a day, (alack the day!)

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blos om, passing fair,

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, 'gn passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd hims-If the h-aven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheek, 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 hy 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.

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 oe'rheard, 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 wreathèd 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 pas

sion :

Ah me? says one; O Jove! the other cries: One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes: [To LONG.] You would for paradise break faith and troth;

[To DUMAIN.] And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.

What will Birón, when that he shall hear

Faith so infringèd, 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 re

prove

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 tuning a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!