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But more devout than this, in our respects,
Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.
Dum. Our letters, madam, show'd much more

than jest.
Long. So did our looks.
Ros.

We did not quote them so. 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 aydual reckoning; If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in beat of blood; If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weedst, 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 woeful 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, The suddeu band of death close up mine eye!

Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.

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

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

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

Kath. 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? Kath. Not so, my lord ;-a twelvemonth 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. Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forswora

again. Long. What says Maria ? Mar.

At the twelvemonth'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 huinble suit attends thy answer therc; Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros. Oft liave I heard of you, my lord Birón, Before I saw you: and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks; Full of comparisous and wounding floats; 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 twelvensonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

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With all the fierce* endeavour of your wit,
To 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 choke a gibing spirit, Whose ivfluence is begot of that louse 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, Deaf'd with the clamours of their own deart 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 twelvemonth? well, befal what will

befal, l'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. Prin. Ay, sweet ny 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 twelvemouth and a

day. And then will end. Biron,

That's too long for a play.

Right shall find wol, throw awadult withal :

Enter Armado.

Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,-
Prin. Was not that Heclor?

• Vehement.

Immediate.

Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave: I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the owl and the cuckoo ? it should have followed in the end of our show.

King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so.
Arm. Holla! approach.

Enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and

others.

This side is Hiems, winter; this Ver, the spring; the one maintain'd by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.

SONG.

Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue,

And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo,-0 word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

II.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleachtheir summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cukoo,-0 word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married car!

III.

Winter. When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

To-who;
Tu-whit, to who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel* the pot.

IV.

Then all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sits brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabst hiss in the bowl.
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

To-who;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way; we, this way.

(Ereunt. Cool.

Wild apples.

In this play, which all the editors have concurred to censure, and some have rejected as unworthy of our poet, it must be confessed that there are many

to cenoure and some hace rejected as 'n worthy of

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