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  • Title: Love's Labor's Lost (Quarto 1, 1598)
  • 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    Not Peer Reviewed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 (Quarto 1, 1598)

    called Loues Labor's lost.

    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.
    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: