Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn for thee: Thou for whom even Jove would swear, Juno but an Ethiop were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I send; and something else more plain, Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note; Long. Dumain, [advancing.] thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief desir'st society: You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, King. Come, sir, [advancing.] you blush; as his your case is such; You chide at him, offending twice as much: I have been closely shrouded in this bush, And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, sion : observ'd your fashion; noted well your pas Ah me! says one; O Jove! the other cries; [To LONG. I would not have him know so much by me. [Descends from the tree. Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to re prove These worms for loving, that art most in love? O, what a scene of foolery I have seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!" 6 Your eyes do make no coaches;] Alluding to a passage in the king's sonnet: "No drop but as a coach doth carry thee." 7 teen!] i. e. grief. 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, Where lies thy grief, O tell me, good Dumain? King. Too bitter is thy jest. I am betray'd, by keeping company King. Soft; Whither away so fast? A true man, or a thief, that gallops so? 9 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? What makes treason here? Cost. Some certain treason. King. 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. 2a 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. The treason, and you, go in peace away toge If it mar nothing neither, ther. Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read; Our parson misdoubts it; 'twas treason, he said. Where hadst thou it? Jaq. Of Costard. [Giving him the letter. King. Where hadst thou it? Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, 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 CosTARD.] 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. [Exeunt COST. and JAQUENET. Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O let us em brace! 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; Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek; 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, And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy. |