Enter the King, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN. King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; That honour, which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, Therefore, brave conquerors!-for so you are, And the huge army of the world's desires,- You three, Birón, Dumain, and Longaville, Your oaths are past, and now subscribe your names; If you are arm'd to do, as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oath, and keep it too. Long. I am resolv'd: 'tis but a three years' fast; The mind shall banquet, though the body pine: Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bank'rout quite the wits. Dum. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified; Biron. I can but say their protestation over, Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there: King. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please; I only swore, to study with your grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest. Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.— What is the end of study? let me know. King. Why, that to know, which else we should not know. Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense? King. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. When mistresses from common sense are hid: Study knows that, which yet it doth not know: King. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. Biron. Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth; while truth the while Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile: By fixing it upon a fairer eye; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that was it blinded by. That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks; Than those that walk, and wot not what they are. Too much to know, is, to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. King. How well he's read, to reason against reading! Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding! Long. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. Biron. The spring is near, when green geese are a breeding. Dum. How follows that? Biron. Fit in his place and time. Dum. In reason nothing. Biron. Something then in rhyme. Long. Biron is like an envious sneaping frost, That bites the first-born infants of the spring. Biron. Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast, Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in an abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose, Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. King. Well, sit you out: go home, Biron; adieu ! Biron. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you : And, though I have for barbarism spoke more, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper, let me read the same; shame! Biron. [Reads.] Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court. And hath this been proclaim'd? Long. Four days ago. Biron. Let's see the penalty. [Reads.]-On pain of losing her tongue. |