ARMADO.
Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
BEROWNE.
What reason have you for ‘t?
ARMADO.
The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.
BOYET.
True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen;
since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of
Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour.
[Enter MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.]
MARCADE.
God save you, madam!
PRINCESS.
Welcome, Marcade;
But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.
MARCADE.
I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father—
PRINCESS.
Dead, for my life!
MARCADE.
Even so: my tale is told.
BEROWNE.
Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud.
ARMADO.
For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
[Exeunt WORTHIES.]
KING.
How fares your Majesty?
PRINCESS.
Boyet, prepare: I will away tonight.
KING.
Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay.
PRINCESS.
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 overboldly we have borne ourselves
In the converse of breath; your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks
For my great suit so easily obtain’d.
KING.
The extreme parts 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;
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.
PRINCESS.
I understand you not: my griefs are double.
BEROWNE.
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 the 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 and vain;
Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,
Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,
Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance:
Which particoated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false for ever to be true
To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.
PRINCESS.
We have receiv’d your letters, full of love;
Your favours, the ambassadors of love;
And, in our maiden council, rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy,
As bombast and as lining to the time;
But more devout than this in our respects
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.
DUMAINE.
Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.
LONGAVILLE.
So did our looks.
ROSALINE.
We did not quote them so.
KING.
Now, at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves.
PRINCESS.
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 the 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 me, challenge me by these deserts;
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,