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fool fent it, and the lady hath it: fweet clown, fweeter 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! [Gets up into a tree.

Enter the KING, with a paper.

KING. Ah me!

BIRON. [afide.] Shot, by heaven!-Proceed, fweet Cupid; thou haft thump'd him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap:—I'faith secrets.—

KING. [reads.] So fweet a kifs the golden fun gives not
To thofe fresh morning drops upon the rose,

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have fmote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:
Nor fhines the filver moon one half fo bright
Through the transparent bofom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;
Thou shin'ft in every tear that I do weep:
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee,

So rideft thou triumphing in my woe ;

Do but behold the tears that fwell 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 ftill make me weep.
O queen of queens, how far doft thou excel!
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.-
How fhall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper;
Sweet leaves, fhade folly. Who is he comes here?

Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.

[Steps afide.

What, Longaville! and reading! liften, ear,

BIRON. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool, appear!

LONG. Ah me! I am forfworn.

[Afide.

[Afide.

BIRON. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing pa

pers.

[Afide.

KING. In love, I hope; Sweet fellowship in fhame!

[Afide.

BIRON. One drunkard loves another of the name. [Afide. LONG. Am I the first that have been perjur'd fo? [Afide. BIRON. I could put thee in comfort; not by two, that

I know:

[Afide.

Thou mak'st the triumviry, the corner-cap of fociety, The shape of love's Tyburn that hangs up fimplicity.

LONG. I fear, thefe ftubborn lines lack power to move: O fweet Maria, emprefs of my love!

These numbers will I tear, and write in profe.

BIRON. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hofe :

Disfigure not his flop.

LONG. This fame fhall go.

[Afide.

[He reads the fonnet.

Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye

('Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,)
Perfuade my heart to this falfe perjury?
Vows, for thee broke, deferve not punishment.
A woman I forfwore; but, I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forfwore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

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

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is :

Then thou, fair fun, which on my earth doft shine, Exhalft this vapour vow; in thee it is:

If broken then, it is no fault of mine;

If by me broke, What fool is not fo wife,

To lofe an oath to win a paradife?

[flesh a deity;

BIRON. [Afide.] This is the liver vein, which makes A green goofe, 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 fend this?-Company! stay. [Stepping afide.

BIRON. [Afide.] All hid, all hid, an old infant play : Like a demi-god here fit I in the sky,

And wretched fools' fecrets heedfully o'er-eye.

More facks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish; Dumain transform'd: four woodcocks in a dish!

DUM. O moft divine Kate!

BIRON. O most prophane coxcomb!

[Afide.

DUM. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye!
BIRON. By earth, fhe is but corporal; there you

lie.

[Afide.

DUм. Her amber hairs for foul have amber coted. BIRON. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. [Afide. DUM. As upright as the cedar.

BIRON. Stoop, I say;

Her fhoulder is with child.

DUM. As fair as day.

[Afide.

BIRON. Ay, as fome days; but then no fun must shine.

[blocks in formation]

BIRON. Amen, fo I had mine: Is not that a good

word?

DUM. I would forget her; but a fever she

[Afide.

Reigns in my blood, and will remember'd be.
BIRON. A fever in your blood! why, then incifion
Would let her out in faucers; Sweet mifprifion! [Afide.

DUM. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. BIRON. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit. [Afide,

DUM. On a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whofe month is ever May,
Spied a bloom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unfeen, 'gan paffage find;
That the lover, fick to death,
Wifh'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph fo!
But alack, my hand is fworn,

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;

Youth fo apt to pluck a fweet.

Do not call it fin in me,

That I am forfworn for thee:

Thou for whom even Jove would fwear,

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I fend; and fomething 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.

[rity,

LONG. Dumain, [advancing.] thy love is far from cha

That in love's grief defir'ft fociety:

You may look pale, but I fhould blufh, I know,

To be o'erheard, and taken napping fo.

KING. Come, fir, [advancing.] you blush; as his your cafe is fuch;

You chide at him, offending twice as much:

You do not love Maria; Longaville
Did never fonnet for her fake compile ;
Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart
His loving bofom, 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, obferv'd your fashion;
Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your paffion :
Ah me! fays one; O Jove! the other cries;
One, her hairs were gold, cryftal the other's eyes:
You would for paradife break faith and troth; [To LONG.
And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.

[To DUMAIN,
What will Birón say, when that he shall hear
A faith infring'd, which fuch a zeal did fwear?
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 fee,

I would not have him know fo much by me.
BIRON. Now step I forth to whip hypocrify.-
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me :

[Defcends from the tree.
Good heart, what grace haft thou, thus to reprove
Thefe worms for loving, that art moft 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;
Tufh, none but minstrels like of fonneting.
But are you not afham'd? nay, are you not,
All three of you, to be thus much o'er-shot?
You found his mote; the king your mote did fee;
But I a beam do find in each of three.

O, what a scene of foolery I have seen,

VOL. II.'

D

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