Love's Labour's Lost by William Shakespeare (ebook reader 7 inch .txt) 📖

of this inkle?' 'One penny.' 'No, I'll give
you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is
a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of
this word.

[Enter BEROWNE.]

BEROWNE.
O! My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met.

COSTARD.
Pray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for
a remuneration?

BEROWNE.
What is a remuneration?

COSTARD.
Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

BEROWNE.
Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.

COSTARD.
I thank your worship. God be wi' you!

BEROWNE.
Stay, slave; I must employ thee:
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

COSTARD.
When would you have it done, sir?

BEROWNE.
O, this afternoon.

COSTARD.
Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.

BEROWNE.
O, thou knowest not what it is.

COSTARD.
I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

BEROWNE.
Why, villain, thou must know first.

COSTARD.
I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

BEROWNE.
It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this:
The princess comes to hunt here in the park,
And in her train there is a gentle lady;
When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,
And Rosaline they call her: ask for her
And to her white hand see thou do commend
This seal'd-up counsel.

[Gives him a shilling.]

There's thy guerdon: go.

COSTARD.
Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a
'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it,
sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration!

[Exit.]

BEROWNE.
And I,--
Forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip;
A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator, and great general
Of trotting 'paritors: O my little heart!
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
What! I love! I sue, I seek a wife!
A woman, that is like a German clock,
Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd that it may still go right!
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all,
A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:
And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.]


ACT IV.

SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park.

[Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS,
ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER.

PRINCESS.
Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?

BOYET.
I know not; but I think it was not he.

PRINCESS.
Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in?

FORESTER.
Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

PRINCESS.
I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.

FORESTER.
Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

PRINCESS.
What, what? First praise me, and again say no?
O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe!

FORESTER.
Yes, madam, fair.

PRINCESS.
Nay, never paint me now;
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass [Gives money]:--take this for telling true:

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

FORESTER.
Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

PRINCESS.
See, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;
If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
And out of question so it is sometimes,
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart;
As I for praise alone now seek to spill
The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

BOYET.
Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty
Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be
Lords o'er their lords?

PRINCESS.
Only for praise; and praise we may afford
To any lady that subdues a lord.

[Enter COSTARD.]

BOYET.
Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

COSTARD.
God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

PRINCESS.
Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

COSTARD.
Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

PRINCESS.
The thickest and the tallest.

COSTARD.
The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth.
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.

PRINCESS.
What's your will, sir? What's your will?

COSTARD.
I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.

PRINCESS.
O! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine.
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;
Break up this capon.

BOYET.
I am bound to serve.
This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.
It is writ to Jaquenetta.

PRINCESS.
We will read it, I swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

BOYET.
'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible;
true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art
lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer
than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The
magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the
pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that
might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in
the vulgar-- O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, he came, saw,
and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?
the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome:
To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who
overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose
side? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the
beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the
king's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so
stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy
lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy
love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou
exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself?
-me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my
eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.
Thine in the dearest design of industry,
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.
'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;
Submissive fall his princely feet before,
And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.'

PRINCESS.
What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?

BOYET.
I am much deceiv'd but I remember the style.

PRINCESS.
Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.

BOYET.
This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the Prince and his book-mates.

PRINCESS.
Thou fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter?

COSTARD.
I told you; my lord.

PRINCESS.
To whom shouldst thou give it?

COSTARD.
From my lord to my lady.

PRINCESS.
From which lord to which lady?

COSTARD.
From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.

PRINCESS.
Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day.

[Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.]

BOYET.
Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

ROSALINE.
Shall I teach you to know?

BOYET.
Ay, my continent of beauty.

ROSALINE.
Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off!

BOYET.
My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,
Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.
Finely put on!

ROSALINE.
Well then, I am the shooter.

BOYET.
And who is your deer?

ROSALINE.
If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.
Finely put on indeed!

MARIA.
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the
brow.

BOYET.
But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?

ROSALINE.
Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man
when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit
it?

BOYET.
So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when
Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit
it.

ROSALINE.
Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

BOYET.
An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
An I cannot, another can.

[Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.]

COSTARD.
By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

MARIA.
A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it.

BOYET.
A mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady!
Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.

MARIA.
Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out.

COSTARD.
Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.

BOYET.
An' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

COSTARD.
Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

MARIA.
Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

COSTARD.