Imatges de pàgina

Cath. Not so, my lord, a twelve-month 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.
Cath. Yet swear not, left ye be forsworn again.
Long. What says Maria ?

Mar. At the twelve-month'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 humble Suit attends thy answer there ;
Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue

you for a man replete with mocks ;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts ;
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lye within the mercy


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 twelve-month-term from day to day
Visit the speechless Sick, and ftill converse
With groaning wretches ; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T' 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.

Rof: Why, that's the way to choak a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose 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 fickly ears,
Deaft with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear

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 twelve-month? well ; befall, what will be-

fall, I'll jest a twelve-month in an Hospital. Prin. Ay, sweet my 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' courtesie Might well have made our sport a Comedy.

King. Come, Sir, it wants a twelve-month and a day, And then 'twill end.

Biron. That's too long for a Play.

Enter Armado.

Arm. Sweet Majefty, vouchsafe me
Prin. Was not that Hektor ?
Dum. That worthy Knight of Troy.

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a Votary; I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, moft esteemid Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the owl and the cuckow ? it should have follow'd in the end of our Show.

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

Enter all, for the Song. This fide is Hiems, winter. This Ver, the spring : the one maintain'd by the owl, The other by the cuckow. Ver, begin.

The The SON G.

When daizies pied, and violets blue,

And lady-smocks all filver white,
And cuckow-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight ;
The cuckow then on every Tree
Mocks married men ; for thus fings he,
Cuckow !

Cuckow ! cuckow ! O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten fraws,

And merry larks are ploughmens' clocks:
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws ;

And maidens bleach their summer smocks;
The cuckow then on every tree
Mocks married men ; for thus fings he,
Cuckow !

Cuckow ! cuckow ! O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

W I N T E R.


When ificles hang by the wall,

And Dick the Depherd blows his nail;
And Tom bears log's into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly fings the faring owl
Tu-whit! to-whoo!

A merry note,
While greafie Jone doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the Parson's faw.;.
And birds fit brooding in the frow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw i.


When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly fings the faring owl
Tu-whit! to-whoo!

A merry note,

While greafie Jone doth keel the pot. Arm. The words of Mercury Are harsh after the Songs of Apollo : You, that way; we, this way. [Exeunt omnes.


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