Love’s Labour’s Lost

Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king: it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty: adieu. Jaquenetta Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! Costard Have with thee, my girl. Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta. Nathaniel Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith⁠— Holofernes Sir tell me not of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? Nathaniel Marvellous well for the pen. Holofernes I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention: I beseech your society. Nathaniel And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. Holofernes And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. To Dull. Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. Exeunt.

Scene III

The same.

	Enter Biron, with a paper.
Biron	The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch⁠—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I 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 rhyme 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! Stands aside.
	Enter the King, with a paper.
King	Ay me!
Biron	Aside. Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!
King	Reads. 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 shinest 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.
Biron	Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!
	Enter Longaville, with a paper.
Longaville	Ay me, I am forsworn!
Biron	Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
King	In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!
Biron	One drunkard loves another of the name.
Longaville	Am I the first that have been perjured so?
Biron	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.
Biron	O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose: Disfigure not his slop.
Longaville	This same shall go. Reads. 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, Exhalest 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?
Biron	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.
Biron	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 Dumain, with a paper.
	Dumain transform’d! four woodcocks in a dish!
Dumain	O most divine Kate!
Biron	O most profane coxcomb!
Dumain