JAQUENETTA.
Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen’s lords.
HOLOFERNES.
I will overglance the superscript: ‘To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.’ I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: ‘Your Ladyship’s in all desired employment, Berowne.’—Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne 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 not me 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.]
ACT IV
SCENE I
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 birdbolt 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