Ah me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes:
You would for paradise 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 such a 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.
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me:

[Descends from the tree. Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to re

1

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 perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing;
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting.
But are you not asham'd? 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 I have 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 !

6 Your eyes do make no coaches;] Alluding to a passage in the

king's sonnet:

7

"No drop but as a coach doth carry thee."

teen!] i. e. grief.

8 To see a king transformed to a gnat!] Biron is abusing the king for his sonneting like a minstrel, and compares him to a gnat, which always sings as it flies.

To see great Hercules whipping a gigg,
And profound Solomon to tune a jigg,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critick 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!

King.
Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?
Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd to 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 moon-like men, of strange inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?
Or groan for Joan? 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?

King.

2

Soft; Whither away so fast?

A true man, or a thief, that gallops so?

Biron. I post from love; good lover, let me go.

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.

Jaq. God bless the king!

King.

What present hast thou there?

Cost. Some certain treason.

King.

What makes treason here?

9-critick Timon-] Critic and critical are used by our

author in the same sense as cynic and cynical.

1 In pruning me?] A bird is said to prune himself when he picks and sleeks his feathers.

2

a gait, a state,] State, I believe, in the present instance, is opposed to gait (i. e. the motion) and signifies the act of standing.

Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir.

King. If it mar nothing neither, The treason, and you, go in peace away together.

Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be

read; Our parson misdoubts it; 'twas treason, he said.

King. Biron, read it over.

Where hadst thou it?

Jaq. Of Costard.

[Giving him the letter.

King. Where hadst thou it?

Cost. Of Dun Adramado, Dun Adramadio.

King. How now! what is in you? why dost thou

tear it?

Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy; your grace needs

not fear it.

Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore

let's hear it.

Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name.
[Picks up the pieces.

Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, [To Cos-
TARD.] you were born to do me shame.-

Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess.
King. What?

Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to

make up the mess:

He, he, and you, my liege, and I,

Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.

O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you

Biron.

True true; we are four:

Hence, sirs; away.

Will these turtles be gone?
King.

Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors

[Exeunt Cost. and JAQUENET. 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 show his face; Young blood will 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 show some love

of thine ?

Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head; and, strucken blind, Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty?

King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee

now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;
She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Birón:
O, but for my love, day would turn to night!
Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;
Where several worthies make one dignity;
Where nothing wants, that want itself doth seek.
Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,-
Fye, painted rhetorick! O, she needs it not:
To things of sale a seller's praise belongs;
She passes praise; then praise too short doth

blot.
A wither'd hermit, five-score 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.

O, 'tis the sun, that maketh all things shine!
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
A wife of such wood were felicity.
O, who can give an oath? where is a book?

That I may swear, beauty doth beauty lack,
If that she 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;

And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.3
Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits
of light.

O, if in black my lady's brows be deckt,
It mourns, that painting, and usurping hair,
Should ravish doters with a false aspéct;
And therefore is she 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 itself 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.

Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be wash'd away. King. "Twere good, yours did; for, sir, to tell

you plain,

I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.

And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.] i. e. the very top, the height of beauty, or the utmost degree of fairness, becomes the heavens.

-and usurping hair,] i. e. false hair.