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Spy'd a blossom pafling fair,
Turning mortal for thy love.
Long. Dumain, thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief desir'ft fociety: [coming forward. You may look pale; but I should blush, I know, To be o'er-heard, and taken napping fo. King. Come, Sir, you blush ; as his, your case is fuch ;
[coming forward. You chide at him, offending twice as much. You do not love Maria ? Longaville Did never sonnet for her fake compile ; Nor never lay'd his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart : I have been closely shrowded in this bush, And markt you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhimes, observ'd your fashion ; Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your passion.
Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisie.
[coming forward. Good heart, what grace haft thou thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love ? Your eyes
do make no coaches in your tears,
King. Too bitter is thy jest.
Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd by you.
I am betray'd by keeping company
groan for Joan ? or spend a minute's time
King. Soft, whither away so fast ?
Enter Jaquenetta and Coftard.
King. If it mar nothing neither,
Jaq. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read, Our Parfon misdoubts it: it was treason, he said.
King. Biron, read it over, [He reads the letter. Where hadít thou it?
Jaq. Of Coftard.
not fear it. Long. It did move him to paffion, and therefore let's
hear it. Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do ine shame.
[To Costard. Guilty, my lord, guilty: I confefs, I confels.
He, he, and you ; and you, my liege, and I
Dum. Now the number is even.
Biron. True, true; we are four :
King. Hence, Sirs, away:
[Exeunt Coft. and Jaquen. Biron, Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace:
As true we are, as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven will shew his face:
Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born : Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. King. What, did these rent lines shew some love of
thine ? Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who fees the heavenly
At the first opening of the gorgeous east)
Kisses the base ground with obedient breasts
upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her Majesty ? King. What zeal, what fury, hath inspir'd thee
O, but for my love, day would turn to night.
Do meet, as at a Fair, in her fair cheek ; Where several worthies make one dignity ;
Where nothing wants, that want it self doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues ;
Fie, painted rhetorick! O, she needs it not: To things of fale a seller's praise belongs: She passes praise; the praise, too short, doth blot.
A wither'd hermit, fivescore winters worn,
Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye : Beauty doth varnish Age, as if new-born,
And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy ;
King. By heav'n, thy love is black as ebony.
A wife of such wood were felicity.
That I may swear, Beauty doth beauty lack, If that the learn not of her eye to look ?
No face is fair, that is not full so black? King. O paradox, black is the badge of hell :
The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night; (25) And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. Biron, Devils sooneft tempt, resembling spirits of
light: O, if in black my lady's brow be deckt,
It mourns, that Painting and usurping Hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect :
And therefore is the born to make black fair. Her Favour turns the fashion of the days,
For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints it self black to imitate her brow. Dum. To look like her, are chimney-sweepers black. Long. And since her time, are colliers counted
bright. King. And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack.
(24) Is Ebony like her ? 0 Word divine ! ) This is the Read. ing of all the Editions that I have seen : but both Dr. Thirlby and Mr. Warburton concurr'd in reading, (as I had likewise conje&ur'd,) o Wood divine !
(25) - black is the badge of Hell; The hue of dungeons, and the School of Night.] Black, being the School of Night, is a Piece of Mystery above my Compre. hension. I had guess’d, it should be, the Stole of Night: but I have preferr'd the Conjeâure of my Friend Mr. Warburton, as it comes nearer in Pronunciation to the corrupted Reading, as well as agrees better with the other Images.