Читать книгу: «Love's Labour's Lost», страница 2

ACT II. SCENE II. The park

Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, with three attending ladies, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, and two other LORDS

 
  BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits.
    Consider who the King your father sends,
    To whom he sends, and what's his embassy:
    Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,
    To parley with the sole inheritor
    Of all perfections that a man may owe,
    Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
    Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.
    Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
    As Nature was in making graces dear,
    When she did starve the general world beside
    And prodigally gave them all to you.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but
mean,
    Needs not the painted flourish of your praise.
    Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,
    Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues;
    I am less proud to hear you tell my worth
    Than you much willing to be counted wise
    In spending your wit in the praise of mine.
    But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,
    You are not ignorant all-telling fame
    Doth noise abroad Navarre hath made a vow,
    Till painful study shall outwear three years,
    No woman may approach his silent court.
    Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course,
    Before we enter his forbidden gates,
    To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,
    Bold of your worthiness, we single you
    As our best-moving fair solicitor.
    Tell him the daughter of the King of France,
    On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
    Importunes personal conference with his Grace.
    Haste, signify so much; while we attend,
    Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will.
  BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. All pride is willing pride, and yours is
so.
                                                      Exit BOYET
    Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
    That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?
  FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Know you the man?
  MARIA. I know him, madam; at a marriage feast,
    Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
    Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
    In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.
    A man of sovereign parts, peerless esteem'd,
    Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms;
    Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
    The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,
    If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,
    Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will,
    Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
    It should none spare that come within his power.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?
  MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they
grow.
    Who are the rest?
  KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth,
    Of all that virtue love for virtue loved;
    Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,
    For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,
    And shape to win grace though he had no wit.
    I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;
    And much too little of that good I saw
    Is my report to his great worthiness.
  ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time
    Was there with him, if I have heard a truth.
    Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,
    Within the limit of becoming mirth,
    I never spent an hour's talk withal.
    His eye begets occasion for his wit,
    For every object that the one doth catch
    The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,
    Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,
    Delivers in such apt and gracious words
    That aged ears play truant at his tales,
    And younger hearings are quite ravished;
    So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love,
    That every one her own hath garnished
    With such bedecking ornaments of praise?
  FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet.
 

Re-enter BOYET

 
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Now, what admittance, lord?
  BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach,
    And he and his competitors in oath
    Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,
    Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt:
    He rather means to lodge you in the field,
    Like one that comes here to besiege his court,
    Than seek a dispensation for his oath,
    To let you enter his unpeopled house.
                                    [The LADIES-IN-WAITING mask]
 

Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS

 
    Here comes Navarre.
  KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome'
I
    have not yet. The roof of this court is too high to be yours,
and
    welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.
  KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I will be welcome then; conduct me thither.
  KING. Hear me, dear lady: I have sworn an oath-
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Our Lady help my lord! He'll be forsworn.
  KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing
    else.
  KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,
    Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
    I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping.
    'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,
    And sin to break it.
    But pardon me, I am too sudden bold;
    To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.
    Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,
    And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Giving a paper]
  KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. YOU Will the sooner that I were away,
    For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay.
  BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
  KATHARINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
  BEROWNE. I know you did.
  KATHARINE. How needless was it then to ask the question!
  BEROWNE. You must not be so quick.
  KATHARINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions.
  BEROWNE. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire.
  KATHARINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire.
  BEROWNE. What time o' day?
  KATHARINE. The hour that fools should ask.
  BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask!
  KATHARINE. Fair fall the face it covers!
  BEROWNE. And send you many lovers!
  KATHARINE. Amen, so you be none.
  BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone.
  KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate
    The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
    Being but the one half of an entire sum
    Disbursed by my father in his wars.
    But say that he or we, as neither have,
    Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid
    A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which,
    One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,
    Although not valued to the money's worth.
    If then the King your father will restore
    But that one half which is unsatisfied,
    We will give up our right in Aquitaine,
    And hold fair friendship with his Majesty.
    But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
    For here he doth demand to have repaid
    A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,
    On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,
    To have his title live in Aquitaine;
    Which we much rather had depart withal,
    And have the money by our father lent,
    Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is.
    Dear Princess, were not his requests so far
    From reason's yielding, your fair self should make
    A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast,
    And go well satisfied to France again.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. You do the King my father too much wrong,
    And wrong the reputation of your name,
    In so unseeming to confess receipt
    Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.
  KING. I do protest I never heard of it;
    And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back
    Or yield up Aquitaine.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We arrest your word.
    Boyet, you can produce acquittances
    For such a sum from special officers
    Of Charles his father.
  KING. Satisfy me so.
  BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come,
    Where that and other specialties are bound;
    To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.
  KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview
    All liberal reason I will yield unto.
    Meantime receive such welcome at my hand
    As honour, without breach of honour, may
    Make tender of to thy true worthiness.
    You may not come, fair Princess, within my gates;
    But here without you shall be so receiv'd
    As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,
    Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
    Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell.
    To-morrow shall we visit you again.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Sweet health and fair desires consort your
    Grace!
  KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place.
                                            Exit with attendants
  BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.
  ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations;
    I would be glad to see it.
  BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan.
  ROSALINE. Is the fool sick?
  BEROWNE. Sick at the heart.
  ROSALINE. Alack, let it blood.
  BEROWNE. Would that do it good?
  ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.'
  BEROWNE. Will YOU prick't with your eye?
  ROSALINE. No point, with my knife.
  BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life!
  ROSALINE. And yours from long living!
  BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring]
  DUMAIN. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?
  BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.
  DUMAIN. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. Exit
  LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?
  BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.
  LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.
  BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a
shame.
  LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter?
  BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard.
  LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard!
  BOYET. Good sir, be not offended;
    She is an heir of Falconbridge.
  LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended.
    She is a most sweet lady.
  BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. Exit LONGAVILLE
  BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap?
  BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap.
  BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no?
  BOYET. To her will, sir, or so.
  BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir; adieu!
  BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.
                                     Exit BEROWNE. LADIES Unmask
  MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord;
    Not a word with him but a jest.
  BOYET. And every jest but a word.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. It was well done of you to take him at his
    word.
  BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.
  KATHARINE. Two hot sheeps, marry!
  BOYET. And wherefore not ships?
    No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.
  KATHARINE. You sheep and I pasture- shall that finish the jest?
  BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her]
  KATHARINE. Not so, gentle beast;
    My lips are no common, though several they be.
  BOYET. Belonging to whom?
  KATHARINE. To my fortunes and me.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles,
      agree;
    This civil war of wits were much better used
    On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abused.
  BOYET. If my observation, which very seldom lies,
    By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,
    Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. With what?
  BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle 'affected.'
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Your reason?
  BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire
    To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire.
    His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed,
    Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed;
    His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
    Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;
    All senses to that sense did make their repair,
    To feel only looking on fairest of fair.
    Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
    As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;
    Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd,
    Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.
    His face's own margent did quote such amazes
    That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.
    I'll give you Aquitaine and all that is his,
    An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
  PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Come, to our pavilion. Boyet is dispos'd.
  BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd;
    I only have made a mouth of his eye,
    By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.
  MARIA. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest skilfully.
  KATHARINE. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.
  ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but
    grim.
  BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches?
  MARIA. No.
  BOYET. What, then; do you see?
  MARIA. Ay, our way to be gone.
  BOYET. You are too hard for me. Exeunt
 

ACT III. SCENE I. The park

Enter ARMADO and MOTH

 
  ARMADO. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.
                                         [MOTH sings Concolinel]
  ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, take this key, give
    enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I
must
    employ him in a letter to my love.
  MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?
  ARMADO. How meanest thou? Brawling in French?
  MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the
tongue's
    end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up
your
    eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the
    throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime
    through the nose, as if you snuff'd up love by smelling love,
    with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with
    your arms cross'd on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit
on a
    spit, or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old
    painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and
away.
    These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice
    wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them
men
    of note- do you note me? – that most are affected to these.
  ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience?
  MOTH. By my penny of observation.
  ARMADO. But O- but O-
  MOTH. The hobby-horse is forgot.
  ARMADO. Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'?
  MOTH. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love
    perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love?
  ARMADO. Almost I had.
  MOTH. Negligent student! learn her by heart.
  ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy.
  MOTH. And out of heart, master; all those three I will prove.
  ARMADO. What wilt thou prove?
  MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the
    instant. By heart you love her, because your heart cannot
come by
    her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love
with
    her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that
you
    cannot enjoy her.
  ARMADO. I am all these three.
  MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.
  ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter.
  MOTH. A message well sympathiz'd- a horse to be ambassador for
an
    ass.
  ARMADO. Ha, ha, what sayest thou?
  MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he
is
    very slow-gaited. But I go.
  ARMADO. The way is but short; away.
  MOTH. As swift as lead, sir.
  ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious?
    Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?
  MOTH. Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.
  ARMADO. I say lead is slow.
  MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so:
    Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun?
  ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric!
    He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he;
    I shoot thee at the swain.
  MOTH. Thump, then, and I flee. Exit
  ARMADO. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!
    By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face;
    Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
    My herald is return'd.
 

Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD

 
  MOTH. A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin.
  ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle; come, thy l'envoy; begin.
  COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail,
sir.
    O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy;
no
    salve, sir, but a plantain!
  ARMADO. By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought,
my
    spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous
    smiling. O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take
    salve for l'envoy, and the word 'l'envoy' for a salve?
  MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve?
  ARMADO. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain
    Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.
    I will example it:
           The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
           Were still at odds, being but three.
    There's the moral. Now the l'envoy.
  MOTH. I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again.
  ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
           Were still at odds, being but three.
  MOTH. Until the goose came out of door,
           And stay'd the odds by adding four.
    Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my
l'envoy.
           The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
           Were still at odds, being but three.
  ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door,
           Staying the odds by adding four.
  MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire
more?
  COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat.
    Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat.
    To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose;
    Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.
  ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?
  MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.
    Then call'd you for the l'envoy.
  COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument
in;
    Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought;
    And he ended the market.
  ARMADO. But tell me: how was there a costard broken in a shin?
  MOTH. I will tell you sensibly.
  COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth; I will speak that
      l'envoy.
    I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,
    Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.
  ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter.
  COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin.
  ARMADO. Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee.
  COSTARD. O, Marry me to one Frances! I smell some l'envoy, some
    goose, in this.
  ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty,
    enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured, restrained,
    captivated, bound.
  COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let
me
    loose.
  ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in
 
 
    lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: bear this
    significant [giving a letter] to the country maid Jaquenetta;
    there is remuneration, for the best ward of mine honour is
    rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. Exit
  MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.
  COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man's flesh, my incony Jew!
                                                       Exit MOTH
    Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O, that's
the
    Latin word for three farthings. Three farthings-
remuneration.
    'What's the price of this inkle?'– 'One penny.'– 'No, I'll
give
    you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why,
it is
    a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell
out of
    this word.
 

Enter BEROWNE

 
  BEROWNE. My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met!
  COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy
for
    a remuneration?
  BEROWNE. What is a remuneration?
  COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.
  BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.
  COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi' you!
  BEROWNE. Stay, slave; I must employ thee.
    As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
    Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.
  COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir?
  BEROWNE. This afternoon.
  COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir; fare you well.
  BEROWNE. Thou knowest not what it is.
  COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it.
  BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first.
  COSTARD. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.
  BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon.
    Hark, slave, it is but this:
    The Princess comes to hunt here in the park,
    And in her train there is a gentle lady;
    When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,
    And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her,
    And to her white hand see thou do commend
    This seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go.
                                         [Giving him a shilling]
  COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a
    'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do
it,
    sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration! Exit
  BEROWNE. And I, forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's
whip;
    A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
    A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;
    A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
    Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
    This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
    This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
    Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,
    Th' anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
    Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
    Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
    Sole imperator, and great general
    Of trotting paritors. O my little heart!
    And I to be a corporal of his field,
    And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
    What! I love, I sue, I seek a wife-
    A woman, that is like a German clock,
    Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
    And never going aright, being a watch,
    But being watch'd that it may still go right!
    Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;
    And, among three, to love the worst of all,
    A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
    With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
    Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
    Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard.
    And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
    To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
    That Cupid will impose for my neglect
    Of his almighty dreadful little might.
    Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
    Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. Exit