Spy'd a bloffom paffing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unfeen, 'gan paffage find;
That the lover, fick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph fo!
But, alack, my hand is fworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
Youth fo apt to pluck a fweet.
Do not call it fin in me,

That I am forfworn for thee:

Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would fwear,
Funo but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I fend, and fomething else more plain,
That shall exprefs my true love's fasting pain:
O, would the King, Biron and Longaville,
Were lovers too! Ill, to example Ill,
Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd
For none offend, where all alike do dote.
Long. Dumain, thy love is far from charity,

note:

That in love's grief defir'it fociety: [coming forward.
You may look pale; but I should blush, I know,
To be o'er-heard, and taken napping fo.

King. Come, Sir, you blufh; as his, your cafe is fuch;

[coming forward. You chide at him, offending twice as much. You do not love Maria? Longaville Did never fonnet for her fake compile. Nor never lay'd his wreathed arms athwart His loving bofom, to keep down his heart? I have been clofely fhrouded in this bush, And markt you both, and for you both did blufh. I heard your guilty rhimes, obferv'd your fafhion; Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your paffion.

Ay me! fays one; O Jove! the other cries ;
Her hairs were gold, cryftal the other's eyes.
You would for Paradife break faith and troth;
And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.
What will Biron fay, when that he shall hear
A faith infringed, which fuch zeal did swear?
How will he fcorn? how will he spend his wit?
How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it?
For all the wealth that ever I did fee,

I would not have him know so much by me.
Ah, good my Liege, I pray thee pardon me.

[Coming forward
Biron. Now ftep I forth to whip hypocrify.
Good heart, what grace haft thou thus to reprove
Thefe worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes do make no coaches in your tears,
There is no certain Princefs that appears?
You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing;
Tufh; none bat minstrels like of fonnetting.
But are you not afham'd? nay, are you not
All three of you, to be thus much o'er-fhot?
You found his mote, the King your mote did fee:
But I a beam do find in each of three.

O, what a fcene of fool'ry have I fcen,
Of fighs, of groans, of forrow, and of teen ?
O me, with what ftrict patience have I fat,
To fee a King transformed to a knot!
To fee great Hercules whipping a gigg,
And profound Solomon tuning a jigg?
And Neftor play at pufh-pin with the boys,
And critick Timon laugh at idle toys?
Where lies thy grief? O tell me, good Dumain;
And gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?
And where my Liege's? all about the breaft?

A candle, hoa!

King. Too bitter is thy jeft.

Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?

Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd by you.
I, that am honeft; I, that hold it fin
To break the vow I am engaged in.

I am betray'd by keeping company
With men, like men, of ftrange inconftancy.
When fhall you fee me write a thing in rhime?
Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time
In pruning me? when fhall you hear, that I
Will praife a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,
A gate, a ftate, a brow, a breast, a waste,
A leg, a limb?

King. Soft, whither away so fast?

A true man or a thief, that gallops fo?

Biron. I poft from love; good lover, let me go.
Enter Jaquenetta and Coftard.

Jaq. God bless the King!

King. What present haft thou there?
Coft. Some certain treafon.

King. What makes treafon here?
Ceft. Nay, it makes nothing, Sir.
King. If it mar nothing neither,

The treafon and you go in peace away together.
Jaq. I befeech your Grace, let this letter be read,
Our Parfon mifdoubts it: it was treafon, he faid.
King. Biron, read it over.
Where hadft thou it?

Faq. Of Coftard.

King. Where hadst thou it?

[He reads the letter.

Coft. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

King. How now, what is in you? why doft thou tear it? Biron. A toy, my Liege, a toy: your Grace needs not fear it.

Long. It did move him to paffion, and therefore let's

hear it.

Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. Biron. Ah, you whorefon loggerhead, you were born [To Coftard. Guilty, my Lord, guilty: I confefs, I confefs. King. What?

to do me fhame.

Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make

up the mefs.

He, he, and you; and you, my Liege, and I
Are pick-purfes in love, and we deferve to die.
D, difmifs this audience, and I shall tell

you more.

Dum

Dum. Now the number is even.

Biron. True, true; we are four :

Will these turtles be gone?

King. Hence, Sirs, away.

Coft Walk afide the true folk, and let the traitors
ftay.
[Exeunt Coft. and Jaquen.
Biron. Sweet Lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace:
As true we are, as flesh and blood can be.

The fea will ebb and flow, heaven will fhew his face :
Young blood doth not obey an old decree.
We cannot cross the cause why we were born:
Therefore of all hands muft we be forfworn.

King. What, did thefe rent lines fhew fome love of thine?
Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who fees the heavenly
Rofaline,

That (like a rude and favage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous east) Bows not his vaffal head, and, ftrucken blind,

Kiffes the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-fighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her Majefty?

King. What zeal, what fury, hath infpir'd thee now? My love (her miftrefs) is a gracious moon;

She (an attending ftar) fcarce feen a light.
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron.
O, but for my love, day would turn to night.
Of all complexions the cull'd fovereignty,

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;
Where feveral worthies make one dignity;

Where nothing wants, that want itself doth feek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues; Fy, painted rhetorick! O, fhe needs it not: To things of fale, a feller's praife belongs: She paffes praife, the praife too fhort doth blot. A wither'd hermit, fivefcore winters worn,

Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,

And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy;
O, 'tis the fun, that maketh all things fhine.
King. By heav'n, thy love is black as ebony.
K 4

Biron.

Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! (29)
A wife of fuch wood were felicity,

O, who can give an oath? where is a book,

That I may fwear, beauty doth beauty lack; If that he learn not of her eye to look?

No face is fair, that is not full fo black? King. O paradox, black is the badge of hell: The hue of dungeons, and the fcowl of night; (30) And beauty's creft becomes the heavens well. Biron. Devils fooneft tempt, refembling fpirits of light; O, if in black my Lady's brow be deckt,

It mourns, that painting and ufurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect :

And therefore is fhe born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days,

For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid difpraise, Paints itself black to imitate her brow. Dum. To look like her, are chimney-fweepers black. Long. And fince her time, are colliers counted bright. King. And Ethiops of their fweet complexion crack. Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light, Biron. Your mistre Tes dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours fhould be wafht away. King. "Twere good, yours did: for, Sir, to tell you plain,

I'll find a fairer face not washt to-day, Biron. I'll prove her fair, or talk 'till dooms-day here. King. No devil will fright thee then fo much as fhe, Dum. I never knew man hold vile ftuff fo dear.

(29) Is ebony like her? O word divine!] This is the reading of all the editions, that I have feen: but both Dr. Thirlby and Mr. War burton concurr'd in reading, (as I had likewife conjectur'd,) O wood divine!

(30)- -black is the badge of bell;

The bue of dungeons, and the fchool of night.] Black, being the fchool of night, is a piece of mystery above my comprehenfion. I had guefs'd, it fhould be, the ftole of night: but I have preferr'd the conjecture of my friend Mr. Warburton, as it comes nearer in pronuncia tion to the corrupted reading, as well as agrees better with the other images.

Long.