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Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to me? Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rank; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick.
Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to my? Kath, A wife!-A beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three. Dum. O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife? Kath. Not so, my lord ;-a twelvemonth and a day
I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say:
Dum, I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again.
Long. What says Maria?
Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Birón,
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain;
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be; it is impossible :
Ros. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Deaf'd with the clamours of their own deart groans,
But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,
Biron. A twelvemonth? well, befal what will befal,
I'll jest a twelvemonth 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;
And then will end.
That's too long for a play.
Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,-
Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.
Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave: I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? it should have followed in the end of our show.
King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so.
Enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and others.
This side is Hiems, winter; this Ver, the spring; the one maintain'd by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.
Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue,
Do paint the meadows with delight,
Cuckoo, cuckoo,-O word of fear,
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,
Cuckoo, cukoo,—O word of fear,
Winter. When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
Tu-whit, to who, a merry note,
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way; we, this way.
+ Wild apples.
In this play, which all the editors have concurred to censure, and some have rejected as unworthy of our poet, it must be confessed that there are many