Berowne

King
Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live registered upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death,
When, spite of cormorant devouring time,
Th’ endeavor of this present breath may buy
That honor which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.

O,
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Berowne
What is the end of study, let me know?
King
Why, that to know which else we should not know.
Berowne
Things hid and barred, you mean, from common sense.
King
Ay, that is study’s godlike recompense.

Why, all delights are vain, and  that most vain
Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain

Berowne
Come on,
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King
Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost
That bites the firstborn infants of the spring.
Berowne
Well, say I am. Why should proud summer boast
Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows,
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King
We must of force dispense with this decree.
She must lie here on mere necessity.
Berowne
Necessity will make us all forsworn
Three thousand times within this three years’ space;
For every man with his affects is born,
Not by might mastered, but by special grace.
If I break faith, this word shall speak for me:
I am forsworn on mere necessity.
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Berowne
But is there no quick recreation granted?
King
Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted
With a refinèd traveler of Spain,
A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
One who the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony,
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And I forsooth in love! I that have been love’s whip,
A very beadle to a humorous sigh,
A critic, nay, a nightwatch constable,
A domineering pedant o’er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent.
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This Signior Junior, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid,
Regent of love rhymes, lord of folded arms,
Th’ anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
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Longaville
I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.
(reads)
O sweet Maria, empress of my love—
These numbers will I tear and write in prose.
(tears the paper)
Berowne, (aside)
O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose.
Disfigure not his shop!
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Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace.
As true we are as flesh and blood can be.
The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;
Young blood doth not obey an old decree.
We cannot cross the cause why we were born;
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
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King
What, did these rent lines show some love of thine?
Berowne
Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline
That, like a rude and savage man of Ind
At the first op’ning of the gorgeous East,
Bows not his vassal head and, strucken blind,
Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?
What peremptory eagle-sighted eye
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow
That is not blinded by her majesty?
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Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms!
O, we have made a vow to study, lords,
And in that vow we have forsworn our books.
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation have found out
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
Of beauty’s tutors have enriched you with?

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive.
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