« הקודםהמשך »
King. So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not [reading
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 wo.
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.
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?
[the king reps afide.
What ! Longaville ! and reading ! listen, ears !
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appears.
Long. Ay me! I am forsworn.
Biron. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
King. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame.
Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name.
Long. Am I the first that have been perjur’d so?
Biron. I could put thee in comfort: not by two, that I know;
Thou mak’st the triumviry, the three-corner-cap of society,
The shape of love’s Tyburn, that hangs up fimplicity.
Long. I fear, these stubborn lines lack power to move:
O fweet Maria, empress of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.
Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:
Disfigure not his slop.
Long. This fame shall go.
[he reads the fonnet. R 2
Did not the heavenly rhetorick 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 earthy, thou a heav'nly love :
Thy grace, being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is :
Then thou fair sun, which on my earth doft shine,
Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is :
If broken then, it is no fault of mine;
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To lose an oath to win a paradise ?
Biron. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity:
A green goose, a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.
God amend us, god amend us! we are much out o'th' way.
Long. By whom shall I send this? (company!) stay.
Biron. All hid, all hid, an old infant play:
Like a demi-god, here sit I in the sky;
And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o’er-eye.
More facks to the mill? O heav'ns, I have my wish,
Dumain is transform'd; four woodcocks in a dish.
Dum. O moft divine Kate!
Biron. O most profane coxcomb!
Dum. Thou heav'n! the wonder of a mortal eye!
Biron. By earth, she is but corporal, there you
Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber coted.
Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. [afide.
Dum. As upright as the cedar.
Biron. Stoop I say;
Her shoulder is with child.
[afide. Dum. As fair as day.
Biron. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine. [afide.
Dum. O, that I had my wish!
Long. And I had mine i
[afide. King. And mine too, good lord !
Biron. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word ? [afide.
Dum. I would forget her, but a fever she
Reigns in my blood, and will remember'd be.
Biron. A fever in your blood l why then incision
Would let her out in faucers; sweet misprision ! [afide.
Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
Biron. Once'more I'll mark how love can vary wit. (afide.
Dumain reads his sonnet.
On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month is ever may,
Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air :
Through the velvet leaves, the wind,
All unseen, can passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
Wilh'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph fo!
But, alack, my hand is sworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet !
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it fin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear,
Juno but an Æthiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
This will I send, and something else more plain,
That shall express 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 note:
For none offend, where all alike do dote.
Long. Dumain, thy love is far from charity,
That in love's grief desir’st society:
You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,
To be o'erheard, and taken napping so.
King. Come, fir, you blush? as his, your case is such;
You chide at him, offending twice as much.
You do not love Maria? Longaville
Did never sonnet for her fake compile?
Nor never lay'd his wreathed arms athwart
His loving bosom, to keep down his heart?
I have been closely shrouded in this bush,
And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush.
I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd
your fashion ;
Saw fighs reek from you, noted well your passion.
*Ay me! says one; o Jove! the other cries;
Her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes.
You would for paradise break faith and troth;
And yove for your love would infringe an oath.
What will Biron say, when that he shall hear
A faith infringed, which such zeal did swear?
How will he scorn? how will he spend his wit ?
How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it?
For all the wealth that ever I did see,
I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me. [coming forward.
Good heart, what grace haft thou thus to reprove
These worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears;
You'll not be perjur’d, 'tis an hateful thing;
Tush; none but minstrels like of sonnetting.
But are you not asham'd? nay, are you not
All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot ?
You found his mote, the king your mote did see:
But I a beam do find in each of three.
0, what a scene of foolery have I seen,
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!
O me, with what strict patience have I sat,
To see a king transformed to a gnat!
To see great Hercules whipping a gig,
And profound Solomon tuning a jig!
And Nestor play at pushpin 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 breast.
A caudle, hoa!
King. Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray'd thus to thy overview?
Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd by you.
I, that am honest, I, that hold it sin
To break the vow I am engaged in,
I am betray'd by keeping company
With vane-like men, of strange inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme ?
for Joan? or spend a minute's time
In pruning me? when shall you hear that I
Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,
A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,
A leg, a limb?
King. Soft! whither away so fast?
A true man or a thief, that gallops so?
Biron. I post from love ; good lover, let me go.