Love's Labor's Lost (Folio 1, 1623)
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Loues Labour's lost
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¶Told our intents before: which once disclos'd,
¶The Ladies did change Fauours; and then we
¶Now to our periurie, to adde more terror,
2410We are againe forsworne in will and error.
¶Much vpon this tis: and might not you
¶Do not you know my Ladies foot by'th squier?
¶And laugh vpon the apple of her eie?
¶Holding a trencher, iesting merrilie?
¶You put our Page out: go, you are alowd.
¶You leere vpon me, do you? There's an eie
2420Wounds like a Leaden sword.
¶Boy. Full merrily hath this braue manager, this car-
¶reere bene run.
¶
Enter Clowne.
2425Welcome pure wit, thou part'st a faire fray.
¶Whether the three worthies shall come in, or no.
¶Ber. What, are there but three?
2430For euerie one pursents three.
¶Ber. And three times thrice is nine.
2435Ber. Is not nine.
¶doth amount.
¶Ber. By Ioue, I alwaies tooke three threes for nine.
2440liuing by reckning sir.
¶Ber. How much is it?
¶will shew where-vntill it doth amount: for mine owne
¶part, I am (as they say, but to perfect one man in one
2445poore man) Pompion the great sir.
¶Ber. Art thou one of the Worthies?
¶the great: for mine owne part, I know not the degree of
¶the Worthie, but I am to stand for him.
¶care.
¶Let them not approach.
¶companie.
¶Qu. Nay my good Lord, let me ore-rule you now;
¶Where Zeale striues to content, and the contents
¶Dies in the Zeale of that which it presents:
¶Their forme confounded, makes most forme in mirth,
¶When great things labouring perish in their birth.
¶
Enter Braggart.
¶royall sweet breath, as will vtter a brace of words.
¶Too too vaine, too too vaine. But we wil put it (as they
¶most royall cupplement.
¶He presents Hector of Troy, the Swaine Pompey ye great,
¶the Parish Curate Alexander, Armadoes Page Hercules,
2480the Pedant Iudas Machabeus: And if these foure Wor-
¶habites, and present the other fiue.
¶Foole, and the Boy,
¶Abate throw at Novum, and the whole world againe,
¶Cannot pricke out fiue such, take each one in's vaine.
2490
Enter Pompey.
¶Clo. I Pompey am.
¶Ber. You lie, you are not he.
¶Clo. I Pompey am.
¶Boy. With Libbards head on knee.
¶I must needs be friends with thee.
¶Du. The great.
2500That oft in field, with Targe and Shield,
¶ And trauailing along this coast, I heere am come by chance,
¶_France.
¶La. Great thankes great Pompey.
¶fect. I made a little fault in great.
¶Ber. My hat to a halfe-penie, Pompey prooues the
2510best Worthie.
¶
Enter Curate for Alexander.
¶Curat. When in the world I liu'd, I was the worldes Com-
¶_mander:
2515My Scutcheon plaine declares that I am Alisander.
¶For it stands too right.
¶ling Knight.
¶Proceede good Alexander.
¶Cur. When in the world I liued, I was the worldes Com-
¶mander.
2525Ber. Pompey the great.
¶queror: you will be scrap'd out of the painted cloth for
M5
this.
