« 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'ft fociety:
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 Jove 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.