Love's Labour's Lost By William Shakespeare Act IV: Scene 3

ACT IV. SCENE III. The same.

[Enter BEROWNE, with a paper.]

BEROWNE.
The king he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself: they have
pitched a toil: I am tolling in a pitch, — pitch that defiles:
defile! a foul word! Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for
so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I am the fool: well
proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills
sheep; it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o' my side. I
will not love; if I do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O! but her
eye, — by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes,
for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and
lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love; and it hath taught me to
rime, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and
here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already; the
clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet
clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not
care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a
paper; God give him grace to groan!

[Gets up into a tree.]

[Enter the KING, with a paper.]

KING.
Ay me!

BEROWNE. [Aside.]
Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thumped
him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

KING.
So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows;
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
Through the transparent bosom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light.
Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep:
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show:
But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel
No thought can think nor tongue of mortal tell.

How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper:
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?
[Steps aside.]
What, Longaville! and reading! Listen, ear.
[Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.]

BEROWNE.
Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

LONGAVILLE.
Ay me! I am forsworn.

BEROWNE.
Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

KING.
In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

BEROWNE.
One drunkard loves another of the name.

LONGAVILLE.
Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?

BEROWNE.
I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know;
Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
The shape of love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.

LONGAVILLE.
I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.
O sweet Maria, empress of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

BEROWNE.
O! rimes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:
Disfigure not his slop.

LONGAVILLE.
This same shall go.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,
Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine:
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To lose an oath to win a paradise!

BEROWNE.
This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity;
A green goose a goddess; pure, pure idolatry.
God amend us, God amend! We are much out o' the way.

LONGAVILLE.
By whom shall I send this? — Company! Stay.

[Steps aside.]

BEROWNE.
All hid, all hid; an old infant play.
Like a demigod here sit I in the sky,
And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye.
More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish.

[Enter DUMAINE, with a paper.]
Dumain transformed: four woodcocks in a dish!

DUMAINE.
O most divine Kate!

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