Imatges de pÓgina
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For all the wealth that ever I did fee,
I would not have him know so much by me,

Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisie.
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 a hateful thing;
Tush; none but minstrels like of sonnetting.
But are you not alham'd ? nay, are you not
All three of you, to be thus much o'er-shot?
You found his mote, the King your mote did see:
But I a beam do find in each of three.
O, what a scene of fool'ry have I seen,
Of fighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen?
O me, with what strict patience have I fat,
To see a King transformed to a Knot!
To see great Hercules whipping a gigg,
And profound Solomon tuning a jigg!
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And ? Cynic Timon laugh at idle toys!
Where lyes thy grief? O tell me, good Dumain;
And gentle Longaville, where lyes thy pain?
And where my Liege's? all about the breast?
A candle, hoa!

King. Too bitter is thy jest.
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 sin
To break the vow I am engaged in.
I am betray'd by keeping company
s With vane-like men, of strange inconstancy.

CRITIC Timon--] ought evidently to be cynic.
8 With men like men, - ] This is a strange senseless line, and
Thould be read thus,
With VANE like men, of Grange inconftancy:

When

7

When shall you see me write a thing in rhime?
Or groan 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 gate, a state, a brow, a breast, a waste,
A leg, a limb?

King. Soft, whither away fo faft?
A true man or a thief, that gallops so?
Biron. I post from love; good lover, let me go.

Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.
Faq. God bless the King!
King. What Present haft thou there?
Cost. Some certain Treason.
King. What makes treason here?
Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, Sir,

King. If it mar nothing neither,
The treason and you go in peace away together.

Faq. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read, Our Parson misdoubts it: it was treason, he said.

King. Biron, read it over. [He reads the letter. Where hadft thou it?

Jaq. Of Coftard.
King. Where hadft thou it?
Cost, Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio,
King. How now, what is in you? why dost thou
Biron. A toy, my Liege, a toy: your Grace needs

not fear it. Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore

let's hear it. Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame.

[To Costard Guilty, my lord, guilty: I confess, I confess.

King. What?
Biron. That

you

three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess. Vol. II.

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tear it?

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He, he, and you; and you, my liege, and I
Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.
o, dismiss this Audience, and I shall tell you more.
Dum. Now the number is even.

Biron. True, true; we are four :
Will these turtles begone?

King. Hence, Sirs, away. Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

[Exeunt Coft. and Jaquen. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace:

As true aś we are, as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven will shew his face:

Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born, Therefore of all hands must we be forfworn. King. What, did these rent lines fhew fome love of

thine ?
Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly

Rosaline,
That (like a rude and savage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous eaft)
Bows not his vaftal head, and, ftrucken blind,

Kisses the base ground with obedient breaft? What peremptory eagle-fighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
That is not blinded by her Majesty?
King. What zeal, what fury, hath inspir'd thee

now?
My love (her mistress) is a gracious moon;
She (an attending star) scarce 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 culld Sovereignty

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

Where nothing wants, that want it self doth feek.

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Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues ;

Fie, painted rhetorick! O, she needs it not :
To things of fale a seller's praise belongs :

She passes praise; the praise, too short, doth blot,
A wither'd hermit, fivescore 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 sun, that maketh all things shine.

King. By heav'n, thy love is black as ebony,
Biron. 9 Is ebony like her? O wood divine !

A wife of such wood were felicity.
O, who can give an oath? where is a book,

That I may swear, Beauty doth beauty lack,
If that she learn not of her eye to look ?

No face is fair, that is not full so black?
King. O paradox, - black is the badge of hell:

The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night;
And beauty's crete becomes the heavens well.
Biron. Devils sooneft tempt, resembling spirits of
light :

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9 Is ebony like her? O WORD divine ! ] We should read, O wood divine.

black is the badge of hell: The hue of dungeons, and the SCHOOL of night ;] We Thould read, the scowl of night, i. e. the frown.

2 And beauty's CREST becomes the heavens well.] This is a contention between two lovers about the preference of a black or white beauty. But, in this reading, he who is contending for the white, takes for granted the thing in dispute ; by saying, that white is the cres of beauty. His adversary had just as much season to call black so. The question debated between them being which was the crest of beauty, black or white. Shakespear çould never write so absurdly: Nor has the Oxford Editor at all mended the matter by substituting dress for cref. We should read,

And beauty's Crete becomes the heavens well, i, e. beauty's white from sreta. In this reading the third line is a VOL. II,

proper

R 2

O, if in black my lady's brow be deckt,

It mourns, that Painting and usurping Hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect :

And therefore is she 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 dispraise,

Paints itself black to imitate her brow. Dum. To look like her, are chimney-sweepers

black. Long. And since her time, are colliers counted

bright. King. And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack, Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is

light.
Biron. Your mistreffes dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash'd away. King. 'Twere good, yours did: for, Sir, to tell

you plain, I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to day. Biron. I'll prove her fair, or talk 'till dooms-day

here. King. No devil will fright thee then so much as

she. Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. Long. Look, here's thy love ; my foot and her face

see. Biron. O, if the streets were paved with thine

eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread. Dum. O vile! then as she goes, what upward lies

The street should fee as she walkt over head.

proper antithesis to the first. I suppose the blunder of the tranfcriber arose from hence, the french word creste in that pronun. ciation and orthography is créte, which he understanding, and knowing nothing of the other fignification of crete from creta, critically altered it to the English way of spelling, crefte.

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