King. And mine too, good Lord! [afide. [afide. Biron. Amen, fo I had mine! Is not that a good word? Dum. I would forget her, but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will remembred be. Biron. A fever in your blood! why then, incifion Would let her out in fawcers, fweet 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. Dumain reads his fonnet. On a day, (alack, the day!) Youth fo apt to pluck a fweet. Do not call it fin in me, That I am forfworn for thee: Thou, for whom ev'n Jove wou'd fwear, Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I fend, and fomething elfe more plain, Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note: [afide. Long. Dumain, thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief defir'ft fociety: [coming forward.` You may look pale; but I should blush, I know, King. Come, Sir, you blush; as his, your cafe is fuch; [coming forward. You chide at him, offending twice as much. I would not have him know fo much by me. [coming forward. O, what a scene of fool'ry have I seen, And Neftor play at push-pin with the boys, Where lies thy grief? O tell me, good Dumain; King. Too bitter is thy jeft. Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view? King. Soft, whither away so fast? A true man or a thief, that gallops fo? Biron. I poft from love; good lover, let me go. Enter Jaquenetta and Coftard. Jaq. God blefs the King! King. What present haft thou there? Coft. Some certain treason. King. What makes treafon here? The treafon and you go in peace away together. Our Parfon mifdoubts it: it was treafon, he faid." King. Biron, read it over. Where hadft thou it? Jaq. Of Coftard. King. Where hadst thou it? [He reads the letter. Coft. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. King. How now, what is in you? why doft thou tear it? Biron. A toy, my Liege, a toy your Grace needs not fear it. VOL. II. Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it. Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. Biron. Ah, you whorefon loggerhead, you were born to do me fhame. [To Coftard. Guilty, my Lord, guilty: I confefs, I confefs. King. What? Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mefs. He, he, and you; and you, my Liege, and I Biron. True, true; we are four: King. Hence, Sirs, away. Coft. Walk afide the true folk, and let the traitors ftay. [Exeunt Coft, and Jaquen. Biron. Sweet Lords, fweet lovers, O, let us embrace: As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The fea will ebb and flow, heaven will fhew his face : We cannot cross the caufe why we were born, King. What, did these rent lines fhew fome love of thine? Biron. Did they, quoth you? who fees the heavenly Rofaline, That (like a rude and favage man of Inde, At the firft opening of the gorgeous east) Bows not his vaffal head, and, ftrucken blind, Kiffes the bafe ground with obedient breast ? What peremptory eagle-fighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her Majefty? King. What zeal, what fury, hath inspir'd thee now? My love (her miftrefs) is a gracious moon; She (an attending ftar) fcarce feen a light. Of all complexions the cull'd fovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek; Where feveral worthies make one dignity; Where nothing wants, that want itself doth feek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues; Fie, painted rhetoric! O, fhe needs it not : To things of fale a feller's praife belongs: She paffes praife; the praife, too fhort, doth blot. A wither'd hermit, fivefcore winters worn, Might fhake off fifty, looking in her eye: And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy; O, who can give an oath? where is a book, No face is fair, that is not full fo black? O, if in black my Lady's brow be deckt, It mourns, that painting and ufurping hair Should ravish doaters with a false afpect : And therefore is fhe 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 difpraise, Paints itfelf black to imitate ber brow. Dum. To look like her are chimney-fweepers black. Long. And fince her time are colliers counted bright. King. And Ethiops of their fweet complexion crack. Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is l ̧ht.' Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours fhould be wash'd away. King. 'Twere good, your's did: for, Sir, to tell you plain, I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day. Biron. I'll prove her fair, or talk till dooms-day here. |