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  • Title: Love's Labor's Lost (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: Timothy Billings

  • Copyright Timothy Billings. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Timothy Billings
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Love's Labor's Lost (Folio 1, 1623)

    Loues Labour's lost139
    2145Qu. Gall, bitter.
    Ber. Therefore meete.
    Du. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
    Mar. Name it.
    Dum. Faire Ladie:
    2150Mar. Say you so? Faire Lord:
    Take you that for your faire Lady.
    Du. Please it you,
    As much in priuate, and Ile bid adieu.
    Mar. What, was your vizard made without a tong?
    2155Long. I know the reason Ladie why you aske.
    Mar. O for your reason, quickly sir, I long.
    Long. You haue a double tongue within your mask.
    And would affoord my speechlesse vizard halfe.
    Mar. Veale quoth the Dutch-man: is not Veale a
    Long. A Calfe faire Ladie?
    Mar. No, a faire Lord Calfe.
    Long. Let's part the word.
    Mar. No, Ile not be your halfe:
    2165Take all and weane it, it may proue an Oxe.
    Long. Looke how you but your selfe in these sharpe
    Will you giue hornes chast Ladie? Do not so.
    Mar. Then die a Calfe before your horns do grow.
    2170Lon. One word in priuate with you ere I die.
    Mar. Bleat softly then, the Butcher heares you cry.
    Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
    As is the Razors edge, inuisible:
    Cutting a smaller haire then may be seene,
    2175Aboue the sense of sence so sensible:
    Seemeth their conference, their conceits haue wings,
    Fleeter then arrows, bullets wind, thoght, swifter things
    Rosa. Not one word more my maides, breake off,
    breake off.
    2180Ber. By heauen, all drie beaten with pure scoffe.
    King. Farewell madde Wenches, you haue simple
    wits. Exeunt.
    Qu. Twentie adieus my frozen Muscouits.
    Are these the breed of wits so wondred at?
    2185Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweete breathes
    puft out.
    Rosa. Wel-liking wits they haue, grosse, grosse, fat, fat.
    Qu. O pouertie in wit, Kingly poore flout.
    Will they not (thinke you) hang themselues to night?
    2190Or euer but in vizards shew their faces:
    This pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite.
    Rosa. They were all in lamentable cases.
    The King was weeping ripe for a good word.
    Qu. Berowne did sweare himselfe out of all suite.
    2195Mar. Dumaine was at my seruice, and his sword:
    No point (quoth I:) my seruant straight was mute.
    Ka. Lord Longauill said I came ore his hart:
    And trow you what he call'd me?
    Qu. Qualme perhaps.
    2200Kat. Yes in good faith.
    Qu. Go sicknesse as thou art.
    Ros. Well, better wits haue worne plain statute caps,
    But will you heare; the King is my loue sworne.
    Qu. And quicke Berowne hath plighted faith to me.
    2205Kat. And Longauill was for my seruice borne.
    Mar. Dumaine is mine as sure as barke on tree.
    Boyet. Madam, and prettie mistresses giue eare,
    Immediately they will againe be heere
    In their owne shapes: for it can neuer be,
    2210They will digest this harsh indignitie.
    Qu. Will they returne?
    Boy. They will they will, God knowes,
    And leape for ioy, though they are lame with blowes:
    Therefore change Fauours, and when they repaire,
    2215Blow like sweet Roses, in this summer aire.
    Qu. How blow? how blow? Speake to bee vnder-
    Boy. Faire Ladies maskt, are Roses in their bud:
    Dismaskt, their damaske sweet commixture showne,
    2220Are Angels vailing clouds, or Roses blowne.
    Qu. Auant perplexitie: What shall we do,
    If they returne in their owne shapes to wo?
    Rosa. Good Madam, if by me you'l be aduis'd,
    Let's mocke them still as well knowne as disguis'd:
    2225Let vs complaine to them what fooles were heare,
    Disguis'd like Muscouites in shapelesse geare:
    And wonder what they were, and to what end
    Their shallow showes, and Prologue vildely pen'd:
    And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
    2230Should be presented at our Tent to vs.
    Boyet. Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.
    Quee. Whip to our Tents, as Roes runnes ore Land.
    Enter the King and the rest.

    2235King. Faire sir, God saue you. Wher's the Princesse?
    Boy. Gone to her Tent.
    Please it your Maiestie command me any seruice to her?
    King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
    Boy. I will, and so will she, I know my Lord. Exit.
    2240Ber. This fellow pickes vp wit as Pigeons pease,
    And vtters it againe, when Ioue doth please.
    He is Wits Pedler, and retailes his Wares,
    At Wakes, and Wassels, Meetings, Markets, Faires.
    And we that sell by grosse, the Lord doth know,
    2245Haue not the grace to grace it with such show.
    This Gallant pins the Wenches on his sleeue.
    Had he bin Adam, he had tempted Eue.
    He can carue too, and lispe: Why this is he,
    That kist away his hand in courtesie.
    2250This is the Ape of Forme, Monsieur the nice,
    That when he plaies at Tables, chides the Dice
    In honorable tearmes: Nay he can sing
    A meane most meanly, and in Vshering
    Mend him who can: the Ladies call him sweete.
    2255The staires as he treads on them kisse his feete.
    This is the flower that smiles on euerie one,
    To shew his teeth as white as Whales bone.
    And consciences that wil not die in debt,
    Pay him the dutie of honie-tongued Boyet.
    2260King. A blister on his sweet tongue with my hart,
    That put Armathoes Page out of his part.

    Enter the Ladies.

    Ber. See where it comes. Behauiour what wer't thou,
    Till this madman shew'd thee? And what art thou now?
    2265King. All haile sweet Madame, and faire time of day.
    Qu. Faire in all Haile is foule, as I conceiue.
    King. Construe my speeches better, if you may.
    Qu. Then wish me better, I wil giue you leaue.
    King. We came to visit you, and purpose now
    2270To leade you to our Court, vouchsafe it then.
    Qu. This field shal hold me, and so hold your vow:
    Nor God, nor I, delights in periur'd men.
    King. Rebuke me not for that which you prouoke:
    M4 The