Love's Labour's Lost By William Shakespeare Act III: Scene 1

BEROWNE.
What is a remuneration?

COSTARD.
Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

BEROWNE.
Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.

COSTARD.
I thank your worship. God be wi' you!

BEROWNE.
Stay, slave; I must employ thee:
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

COSTARD.
When would you have it done, sir?

BEROWNE.
O, this afternoon.

COSTARD.
Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.

BEROWNE.
O, thou knowest not what it is.

COSTARD.
I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

BEROWNE.
Why, villain, thou must know first.

COSTARD.
I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

BEROWNE.
It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this:
The princess comes to hunt here in the park,
And in her train there is a gentle lady;
When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,
And Rosaline they call her: ask for her
And to her white hand see thou do commend
This seal'd-up counsel.

[Gives him a shilling.]

There's thy guerdon: go.

COSTARD.
Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a
'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it,
sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration!

[Exit.]

BEROWNE.
And I, —
Forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip;
A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator, and great general
Of trotting 'paritors: O my little heart!
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
What! I love! I sue, I seek a wife!
A woman, that is like a German clock,
Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd that it may still go right!
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all,
A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:
And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.]

Back to Top

Take the Quiz

Costard has to deliver two notes — one is a love letter, and the other is




Quiz