And profound Solomon to tune a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic 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!
FERDINAND Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view?
BIRON Not you to me, but I betray’d by 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 men like men of inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?
Or groan for love? 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?
FERDINAND 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
JAQUENETTA God bless the king!
FERDINAND What present hast thou there?
COSTARD Some certain treason.
FERDINAND What makes treason here?
COSTARD Nay, it makes nothing, sir.
FERDINAND If it mar nothing neither,
The treason and you go in peace away together.
JAQUENETTA I beseech your grace, let this letter be read:
Our parson misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.
FERDINAND Biron, read it over.
Giving him the paper
Where hadst thou it?
JAQUENETTA Of Costard.
FERDINAND Where hadst thou it?
COSTARD Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
BIRON tears the letter
FERDINAND How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it?
BIRON A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it.
LONGAVILLE It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.
DUMAIN It is Biron’s writing, and here is his name.
Gathering up the pieces
BIRON [To COSTARD]
Ah, you whoreson loggerhead! you were
born to do me shame.
Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.
FERDINAND What?
BIRON That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess:
He, he, and you, 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 more.
DUMAIN Now the number is even.
BIRON True, true; we are four.
Will these turtles be gone?
FERDINAND Hence, sirs; away!
COSTARD Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.
Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA
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 doth not obey an old decree:
We cannot cross the cause why we were born;
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
FERDINAND 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?
FERDINAND What zeal, what fury hath inspired 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 Biron:
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,–
Fie, painted rhetoric! 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.
FERDINAND 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.
FERDINAND O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons and the suit of night;
And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well.
BIRON Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
O, if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,
It mourns that painting and usurping hair
Should ravish doters with a false aspect;
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.
DUMAIN To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.
LONGAVILLE And since her time are colliers counted bright.
FERDINAND And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack.
DUMAIN 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.
FERDINAND ‘Twere good, yours 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 doomsday here.
FERDINAND No devil will fright thee then so much as she.
DUMAIN I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.
LONGAVILLE Look, here’s thy love: my foot and her face see.
BIRON O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes,
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread!
DUMAIN O, vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies
The street should see as she walk’d overhead.
FERDINAND But what of this? are we not all in love?
BIRON Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.
FERDINAND Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, now prove
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.
DUMAIN Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.
LONGAVILLE O, some authority how to proceed;
Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.
DUMAIN Some salve for perjury.
BIRON ‘Tis more than need.
Have at you, then, affection’s men at arms.
Consider what you first did swear unto,
To fast, to study, and to see no woman;
Flat treason ‘gainst the kingly state of youth.
Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young;
And abstinence engenders maladies.
And where that you have vow’d to study, lords,
In that each of you have forsworn his book,
Can you still dream and pore and thereon look?
For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,
Have found the ground of study’s excellence
Without the beauty of a woman’s face?
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive; They are the ground, the books, the academes From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire
Why, universal plodding poisons up
The nimble spirits in the arteries,
As motion and long-during action tires
The sinewy vigour of the traveller.
Now, for not looking on a woman’s face,
You have in that forsworn the use of eyes
And study too, the causer of your vow;
For where is any author in the world
Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye?
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself
And where we are our learning likewise is:
Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes,
Do we not likewise see our learning there?
O, we have made a vow to study, lords,
And in that vow we have forsworn our books.
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation have found out
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain;
And therefore, finding barren practisers,
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil:
But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain;
But, with the motion of all elements,
Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their offices.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye;
A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind;
A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d:
Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible
Than are the tender horns of cockl’d snails;
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste:
For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair:
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write