Cath. Not fo, my lord, a twelve-month and a day,
I'll mark no words that fmooth-fac'd wooers fay.
Come, when the King doth to my lady come;
Then if I have much love, I'll give you fome.
Dum. I'll ferve thee true and faithfully till then.
Cath. Yet fwear not, left ye be forfworn again.
Long. What fays Maria ?
Mar. At the twelve-month's end,
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
Long. I'll ftay with patience; but the time is long.
Mar. The liker you; few taller are so young.
Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on me,
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble Suit attends thy answer there;
Impose fome service on me for thy love.
Rof. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I faw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts;
Which you on all eftates will execute,
That lye within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
(Without the which I am not to be won ;)
You fhall this twelve-month-term from day to day
Vifit the speechlefs Sick, and ftill converfe
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T'enforce the pained Impotent to fmile.
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death ? It cannot be, it is impoffible:
Mirth cannot move a foul in agony.
Rof. Why, that's the way to choak a gibing spirit,
Whofe influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which fhallow laughing hearers give to fools:
A jeft's profperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if fickly ears,
Deaft with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns; continue then,
And I will have you, and that fault withal :
But if they will not, throw away that spirit;
And I fhall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of
your Reformation.
Biron. A twelve-month? well; befall, what will befall,
I'll jeft a twelve-month in an Hospital.
Prin. Ay, fweet my lord, and fo I take leave. my [to the King King. No, Madam; we will bring you on your way. Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old Play ; Jack hath not Fill; thefe ladies' courtefie Might well have made our sport a Comedy.
King. Come, Sir, it wants a twelve-month and a day, And then 'twill end.
Biron. That's too long for a Play.
Enter Armado.
Arm. Sweet Majefty, vouchsafe me
Prin. Was not that Hector?
Dum. That worthy Knight of Troy.
Arm. I will kifs thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a Votary; I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, moft esteem'd Greatnefs, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praife of the owl and the cuckow? it fhould have follow'd in the end of our Show.
King. Call them forth quickly, we will do fo.
Arm. Hella! approach.
This fide is Hiems, winter.
This Ver, the fpring: the one maintain'd by the owl,
The other by the cuckow.
Ver, begin.
SPRIN G.
When daizies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-fmocks all filver white,
And cuckow-buds of yellow bue,
Do paint the meadows with delight;
The cuckow then on every Tree
Mocks married men; for thus fings he,
Cuckow!
Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear,
Unpleafing to a married ear!
When Shepherds pipe on oaten fraws,
And merry larks are ploughmens' clocks:
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws;
And maidens bleach their fummer Smocks
The cuckow then on every tree
Mocks married men; for thus fings he,
Cuckow!
Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear,
Unpleafing to a married ear!
WINTER.
When ificles hang by the wall,
And Dick the Shepherd blows his nail;
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly fings the flaring owl
Tu-whit! to-whoo!
A merry note,
While greafie Jone doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the Parfon's faw; And birds fit brooding in the fnow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;.
When roafted crabs hifs in the bowl,
Then nightly fings the flaring owl
Tu-whit! to-hoo!
A merry note,
While greafie Jone doth keel the pot.
Arm. The words of Mercury
Are harsh after the Songs of Apollo:
You, that way; we, this way.
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