style="font-size:15px;"> There is no certain princess that appears;
You’ll not be perjur’d, ’tis a hateful thing;
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!
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.
O, what a scene of fool’ry 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 Salomon to tune a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!
Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumaine?
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?
And where my liege’s? All about the breast!
A caudle ho!
King.
Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view?
Ber.
Not you by me, but I betrayed to you:
I that am honest, I that hold it sin
To break the vow I am engaged in.
I am betrayed by keeping company
With men like [you], men of inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme,
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 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?
Ber.
I post from love; good lover, let me go.
Enter Jaquenetta and Clown [Costard].
Jaq.
God bless the King!
King.
What present hast 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.
Jaq.
I beseech your Grace let this letter be read:
Our person misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.
King.
Berowne, read it over.
He [Berowne] reads the letter.
Where hadst thou it?
Jaq.
Of Costard.
King.
Where hadst thou it?
Cost.
Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
[Berowne tears the letter.]
King.
How now, what is in you? Why dost thou tear it?
Ber.
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. [Gathering up the pieces.]
It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name.
Ber. [To Costard.]
Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame.
Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.
King.
What?
Ber.
That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess.
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.
Ber.
True, true, we are four.
Will these turtles be gone?
King.
Hence,
