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Shakespeare on Stage
American Shakespeare Center, Twelfth Night. To Jun. 16, 2013.
American Shakespeare Center, Love's Labour's Lost. To Jun. 15, 2013.
Folger Shakespeare Library, Twelfth Night. To Jun. 9, 2013.
American Shakespeare Center, Return to the Forbidden Planet. To Dec. 1, 2013.
American Shakespeare Center, The Duchess of Malfi. To Jun. 15, 2013.
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Love's Labor's Lost (Quarto 1, 1598)

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed

Sir I do inuite you too, you shall not say me nay: pauca verba.
Away, the gentles are at their game, and we will to our re-
creation.
Exeunt.
Enter Berowne with a paper in his hand, alone.
Berow. The King he is hunting the Deare,
1335 I am coursing my selfe.
They haue pitcht a Toyle, I am toyling in a pytch, pytch
that defiles; defile, a foule worde: Well, set thee downe
sorrow; for so they say the foole sayd, and so say I, and I the
foole: Well proued wit. By the Lord this Loue is as madd
1340as Aiax, it kills Sheepe, it kills mee, I a Sheepe well prooued
againe a my side. I will not loue; if I do hang mee: I'fayth
I will not. O but her eye: by this light, but for her eye, I
would not loue her; yes for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing
in the world but lie, and lie in my throate. By heauen I doe
1345loue, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be mallicholie:
and heere is part of my Rime, and heare my mallicholie.
Well, she hath one a'my Sonnets already, the Clowne bore
it, the Foole sent it, and the Lady hath it: sweete Clowne,
1350sweeter Foole, sweetest Lady. By the worlde, I woulde not
care a pin, if the other three were in. Heere comes one with
a paper, God giue him grace to grone.
He standes a side.The King entreth.
King. Ay mee!
1355Be. Shot by heauen, proceed sweet Cupid, thou hast thumpt
him with thy Birdbolt vnder the left papp: in fayth secrets.
King.
So sweete a kisse the golden Sunne giues not,
To those fresh morning dropps vpon the Rose,
1360As thy eye beames, when their fresh rayse haue smot.
The night of dew that on my cheekes downe flowes,
Nor shines the siluer Moone one halfe so bright,
Through the transparent bosome of the deepe,
As doth thy face through teares of mine giue light:
1365Thou shinst in euerie teare that I do weepe,
No drop but as a Coach doth carrie thee:
So ridest thou triumphing in my wo.
Do but beholde the teares that swell in me,
And they thy glorie through my griefe will show:
But
called Loues Labor's lost.