Love's Labour's Lost
Can any face of brass hold longer out?
Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me.
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout,
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance,
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit,
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
O, never will I trust to speeches penned,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue,
Nor never come in visor to my friend,
Nor woo in rhyme like a blind harper’s song.
Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Figures pedantical: these summer flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.
I do forswear them, and I here protest,
By this white glove—how white the hand, God knows!—
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be expressed
In russet yeas and honest kersey noes.
And, to begin: wench, so God help me, law,
My love to thee is sound, _sans_ crack or flaw.
ROSALINE.
_Sans_ “_sans_,” I pray you.
BEROWNE.
Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage. Bear with me, I am sick;
I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see:
Write “Lord have mercy on us” on those three.
They are infected; in their hearts it lies;
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes.
These lords are visited. You are not free,
For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see.
PRINCESS.
No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.
BEROWNE.
Our states are forfeit. Seek not to undo us.
ROSALINE.
It is not so. For how can this be true,
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?
BEROWNE.
Peace! for I will not have to do with you.
ROSALINE.
Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
BEROWNE.
Speak for yourselves. My wit is at an end.
KING.
Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression
Some fair excuse.
PRINCESS.
The fairest is confession.
Were not you here but even now, disguised?
KING.
Madam, I was.
PRINCESS.
And were you well advised?
KING.
I was, fair madam.
PRINCESS.
When you then were here,
What did you whisper in your lady’s ear?
KING.
That more than all the world I did respect her.
PRINCESS.
When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.
KING.
Upon mine honour, no.
PRINCESS.
Peace, peace, forbear!
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.
KING.
Despise me when I break this oath of mine.
PRINCESS.
I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline,
What did the Russian whisper in your ear?
ROSALINE.
Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear
As precious eyesight, and did value me
Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,
That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
PRINCESS.
God give thee joy of him! The noble lord
Most honourably doth uphold his word.
KING.
What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth,
I never swore this lady such an oath.
ROSALINE.
By heaven, you did! And to confirm it plain,
You gave me this. But take it, sir, again.
KING.
My faith and this the Princess I did give.
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
PRINCESS.
Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear,
And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.
What, will you have me, or your pearl again?
BEROWNE.
Neither of either; I remit both twain.
I see the trick on’t. Here was a consent,
Knowing aforehand of our merriment,
To dash it like a Christmas comedy.
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,
That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick
To make my lady laugh when she’s disposed,
Told our intents before; which once disclosed,
The ladies did change favours, and then we,
Following the signs, wooed but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn in will and error.
Much upon this ’tis. [_To Boyet_.] And might not you
Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?
Do not you know my lady’s foot by th’ squier,
And laugh upon the apple of her eye?
And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?
You put our page out. Go, you are allowed;
Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.
You leer upon me, do you? There’s an eye
Wounds like a leaden sword.
BOYET.
Full merrily
Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.
BEROWNE.
Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.
Enter Costard.
Welcome, pure wit! Thou part’st a fair fray.
COSTARD.
O Lord, sir, they would know
Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.
BEROWNE.
What, are there but three?
COSTARD.
No, sir; but it is vara fine,
For every one pursents three.
BEROWNE.
And three times thrice is nine.
COSTARD.
Not so, sir, under correction, sir, I hope it is not so.
You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know.
I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir—
BEROWNE.
Is not nine?
COSTARD.
Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.
BEROWNE.
By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
COSTARD.
O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.
BEROWNE.
How much is it?
COSTARD.
O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show
whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to
parfect one man in one poor man—Pompion the Great, sir.
BEROWNE.
Art thou one of the Worthies?
COSTARD.
It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompey the Great. For mine own
part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.
BEROWNE.
Go bid them prepare.
COSTARD.
We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.
[_Exit Costard._]
KING.
Berowne, they will shame us. Let them not approach.
BEROWNE.
We are shame-proof, my lord, and ’tis some policy
To have one show worse than the King’s and his company.
KING.
I say they shall not come.
PRINCESS.
Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.
That sport best pleases that doth least know how,
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Die in the zeal of that which it presents;
Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
BEROWNE.
A right description of our sport, my lord.
Enter Armado, the Braggart.
ARMADO.
Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will
utter a brace of words.
[_Armado and King talk apart._]
PRINCESS.
Doth this man serve God?
BEROWNE.
Why ask you?
PRINCESS.
He speaks not like a man of God his making.
ARMADO.
That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the
schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too, too vain, too, too vain.
But we will put it, as they say, to _fortuna de la guerra_. I wish you
the peace of mind, most royal couplement!
[_Exit._]
KING.
Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of
Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander;
Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus.
_And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,
These four will change habits and present the other five._
BEROWNE.
There is five in the first show.
KING.
You are deceived. ’Tis not so.
BEROWNE.
The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy.
Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again
Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.
KING.
The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.
Enter Costard as Pompey.
COSTARD.
_I Pompey am_—
BEROWNE.
You lie, you are not he.
COSTARD.
_I Pompey am_—
BOYET.
With leopard’s head on knee.
BEROWNE.
Well said, old mocker. I must needs be friends with thee.
COSTARD.
_I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big._
DUMAINE.
The “Great”.
COSTARD.
It is “Great”, sir; _Pompey surnamed the Great,
That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat.
And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France._
If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pompey”, I had done.
PRINCESS.
Great thanks, great Pompey.
COSTARD.
’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault
in “Great”.
BEROWNE.
My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.
Enter Nathaniel, the Curate, for Alexander.
NATHANIEL.
_When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander;
By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might.
My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander._
BOYET.
Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right.
BEROWNE.
Your nose smells “no” in this, most tender-smelling knight.
PRINCESS.
The conqueror is dismayed. Proceed, good Alexander.
NATHANIEL.
_When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander_—
BOYET.
Most true; ’tis right. You were so, Alisander.
BEROWNE.
Pompey the Great—
COSTARD.
Your servant, and Costard.
BEROWNE.
Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.
COSTARD.
[_To Sir Nathaniel_.] O sir, you have overthrown Alisander the
Conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this. Your
lion, that holds his pole-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given
to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak?
Run away for shame, Alisander. [_Nathaniel retires_.] There, an’t shall
please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon
dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good
bowler; but for Alisander, alas you see how ’tis—a little o’erparted.
But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other
sort.
PRINCESS.
Stand aside, good Pompey.
Enter Holofernes, the Pedant, as Judas, and Moth, the Boy, as Hercules.
HOLOFERNES.
_Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club killed Cerberus, that three-headed_ canus,
_And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
Thus did he strangle serpents in his_ manus.
Quoniam _he seemeth in minority_,
Ergo _I come with this apology._
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.
[_Moth retires._]
_Judas I am._—
DUMAINE.
A Judas!
HOLOFERNES.
Not Iscariot, sir.
_Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus._
DUMAINE.
Judas Maccabaeus clipped is plain Judas.
BEROWNE.
A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas?
HOLOFERNES.
_Judas I am_—
DUMAINE.
The more shame for you, Judas.
HOLOFERNES.
What mean you, sir?
BOYET.
To make Judas hang himself.
HOLOFERNES.
Begin, sir; you are my elder.
BEROWNE.
Well followed. Judas was hanged on an elder.
HOLOFERNES.
I will not be put out of countenance.
BEROWNE.
Because thou hast no face.
HOLOFERNES.
What is this?
BOYET.
A cittern-head.
DUMAINE.
The head of a bodkin.
BEROWNE.
A death’s face in a ring.
LONGAVILLE.
The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
BOYET.
The pommel of Caesar’s falchion.
DUMAINE.
The carved-bone face on a flask.
BEROWNE.
Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.
DUMAINE.
Ay, and in a brooch of lead.
BEROWNE.
Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.
And now forward, for we have put thee in countenance.
HOLOFERNES.
You have put me out of countenance.
BEROWNE.
False. We have given thee faces.
HOLOFERNES.
But you have outfaced them all.
BEROWNE.
An thou wert a lion, we would do so.
BOYET.
Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.
And so adieu, sweet Jude. Nay, why dost thou stay?
DUMAINE.
For the latter end of his name.
BEROWNE.
For the ass to the Jude? Give it him. Jud-as, away!
HOLOFERNES.
This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.
BOYET.
A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark; he may stumble.
[_Exit Holofernes._]
PRINCESS.
Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited!
Enter Armado, the Braggart, as Hector.
BEROWNE.
Hide thy head, Achilles. Here comes Hector in arms.
DUMAINE.
Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.
KING.
Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.
BOYET.
But is this Hector?
DUMAINE.