Mac.

God save you, Madam!

Prin.

Welcome, Macard, but that thou interruptest our merriment.

Mac.
I'm sorry, Madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—

Prin.
Dead, for my life.

Mac.
Even so: my Tale is told.

Biron.
Worthies, away; the Scene begins to cloud.

Arm.

For my own part, I breathe free breath; I

have seen the days of wrong through the little hole of discretion,^{5 note} and I will right myself like a soldier.

King.
How fares your Majesty?

Prin.
Boyet, prepare; I will away to night.

King.
Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay.

Prin.
Prepare, I say.—I thank you, gracious lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe
In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide,
The liberal opposition of our spirits;
If over-boldly we have borne ourselves
In the converse of breath,^{6 note} your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewel, worthy lord;
An heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue:^{7 note}
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks,
For my great Suit so easily obtain'd.

King.
The extreme part of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed;
And often, at his very loose, decides
That, which long Process could not arbitrate.
And though the mourning brow of Progeny
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love,
The holy suit which fain it would convince;^{8 note}

Yet since love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
From what it purpos'd: Since, to wail friends lost,
Is not by much so wholesome, profitable,
As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin.
I understand you not, my griefs are double.

Biron.
^{9 note}


Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
And by these badges understand the King.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to th' opposed end of our intents;
And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,
As love is full of unbefitting strains,
All wanton as a child, skipping in vain,
Form'd by the eye, and therefore like the eye,
Full of straying shapes, of habits, and of forms,
Varying in subjects as the eye doth rowl,
To every varied object in his glance;
Which party-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heav'nly eyes,
Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities;
Those heav'nly eyes, that look into these faults,
^{1 note}Suggested us to make them: therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false,^{2 note}

By being once false, for ever to be true
To those that make us both; fair ladies, you:
An even that falshood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself, and turns to Grace.

Prin.
We have receiv'd your letters, full of love;
Your Favours, the embassadors of love:
And in our maiden council rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy;
As bombast, and as lining to the time:^{3 note}
But more devout than this, in our respects,^{4 note}

Dum.
Our letters, Madam, shew'd much more than jest.

Long.
So did our looks.

Ros.
We did not cote them so.^{5 note}

King.
Now at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves.

Prin.
A time, methinks, too short,
To make a world-without-end bargain in;
No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,

Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore, this—
If for my love (as there is no such cause)
You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked Hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay, until the twelve celestial Signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this trial, and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge; challenge me, by these deserts;
And by this virgin palm, now kissing thine,
I will be thine; and 'till that instant shut
My woful self up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation,
For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other's heart.

King.
If this, or more than this, I would deny,
  To flatter up these powers of mine with rest;^{6 note}

Biron.
^{7 note}




And what to me, my love? and what to me?

Ros.
You must be purged too, your sins are rank,
You are attaint with fault and perjury;
Therefore if you my favour mean to get,
A twelve-month shall you spend, and never rest,
But seek the weary beds of people sick.

Dum.
But what to me, my love? but what to me?

Cath.
A wife!—a beard, fair health and honesty;
With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

Dum.
O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

Cath.
Not so, my lord—a twelve-month and a day—
I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say.
Come, when the King doth to my lady come;
Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some.

Dum.
I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Cath.
Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

Long.
What says Maria?

Mar.
At the twelve-month's end,
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long.
I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Mar.
The liker you; few taller are so young.

Biron.
Studies my lady? mistress, look on me,
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble Suit attends thy answer there;

Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros.
Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts;
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
Without the which I am not to be won;
You shall this twelve-month-term from day to day
Visit the speechless Sick, and still converse
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T' enforce the pained Impotent to smile.

Biron.
To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be, it is impossible:
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros.
Why, that's the way to choak a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which shallow-laughing hearers give to fools:
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
Deaft with the clamours of their own * ^notedear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns; continue then,
And I will have you, and that fault withal:
But if they will not, throw away that spirit;
And I shall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your Reformation.

Biron.
A twelve-month? well; befal, what will befal,
I'll jest a twelve-month in an Hospital.

Prin.
Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave. [To the King.

King.
No, Madam; we will bring you on your way.

Biron.
Our wooing doth not end like an old Play;
Jack hath not Jill; these ladies' courtesy
Might well have made our sport a Comedy.

King.
Come, Sir, it wants a twelve-month and a day,
And then 'twill end.

Biron.
That's too long for a Play. Enter Armado.

Arm.

Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me—

Prin.

Was not that Hector?

Dum.

That worthy Knight of Troy.

Arm.

I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a Votary; I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteem'd Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the owl and the cuckow? it should have follow'd in the end of our Show.

King.

Call them forth quickly, we will do so.

Arm.

Holla! approach.—