Loves Labour Lost by William Shakespeare
page 43 of 128 (33%)
page 43 of 128 (33%)
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Ber. It must be done this after-noone, Harke slaue, it is but this: The Princesse comes to hunt here in the Parke, And in her traine there is a gentle Ladie: When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her, aske for her: And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd-vp counsaile. Ther's thy guerdon: goe Clo. Gardon, O sweete gardon, better then remuneration, a leuenpence-farthing better: most sweete gardon. I will doe it sir in print: gardon, remuneration. Enter. Ber. O, and I forsooth in loue, I that haue beene loues whip? A verie Beadle to a humerous sigh: A Criticke, Nay, a night-watch Constable. A domineering pedant ore the Boy, Then whom no mortall so magnificent, This wimpled, whyning, purblinde waiward Boy, This signior Iunios gyant dwarfe, don Cupid, Regent of Loue-rimes, Lord of folded armes, Th' annointed soueraigne of sighes and groanes: Liedge of all loyterers and malecontents: Dread Prince of Placcats, King of Codpeeces. Sole Emperator and great generall Of trotting Parrators (O my little heart.) And I to be a Corporall of his field, |
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