ACT V. SCENE II. The same. Before the Princess's pavilion.
[Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE and MARIA.]
Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,
If fairings come thus plentifully in.
A lady wall'd about with diamonds!
Look you what I have from the loving king.
Madam, came nothing else along with that?
Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rime
As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper
Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all,
That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.
That was the way to make his godhead wax;
For he hath been five thousand years a boy.
Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.
You'll ne'er be friends with him: a' kill'd your sister.
He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;
And so she died: had she been light, like you,
Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,
She might ha' been a grandam ere she died;
And so may you, for a light heart lives long.
What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?
A light condition in a beauty dark.
We need more light to find your meaning out.
You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff;
Therefore I'll darkly end the argument.
Look what you do, you do it still i' the dark.
So do not you; for you are a light wench.
Indeed, I weigh not you; and therefore light.
You weigh me not? O! that's you care not for me.
Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.'
Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd.
But, Rosaline, you have a favour too:
Who sent it? and what is it?
I would you knew.
An if my face were but as fair as yours,
My favour were as great: be witness this.
Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne;
The numbers true, and, were the numbering too,
I were the fairest goddess on the ground:
I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs.
O! he hath drawn my picture in his letter.
Much in the letters; nothing in the praise.
Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion.
Fair as a text B in a copy-book.
'Ware pencils! how! let me not die your debtor,
My red dominical, my golden letter:
O, that your face were not so full of O's!
A pox of that jest! and beshrew all shrows!
But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?
Madam, this glove.
Did he not send you twain?
Yes, madam; and, moreover,
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover;
A huge translation of hypocrisy,
Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity.
This, and these pearl, to me sent Longaville;
The letter is too long by half a mile.
I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart
The chain were longer and the letter short?
Ay, or I would these hands might never part.
We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
That same Berowne I'll torture ere I go.
O that I knew he were but in by th' week!
How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rimes,
And shape his service wholly to my hests,
And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
So perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd,
As wit turn'd fool: folly, in wisdom hatch'd,
Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school
And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool.
The blood of youth burns not with such excess
As gravity's revolt to wantonness.