What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? 

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?

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues—
Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not!
To things of sale a seller's praise belongs.
She passes praise.

King
What zeal, what fury, hath inspired thee now?
My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon,
She an attending star scarce seen a light.
Berowne
My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne.
O, but for my love, day would turn to night!
Of all complexions the culled sovereignty
Do meet as at a fair in her fair cheek.
Where several worthies make one dignity,
Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.
Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues—
Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not!
To things of sale a seller's praise belongs.
She passes praise. Then praise too short doth blot.
A withered hermit, fivescore winters worn,
Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye.
Beauty doth varnish age, as if newborn,
And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.
O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine!
King
By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
Berowne
Is ebony like her? O word divine!
A wife of such wood were felicity.
O, who can give an oath? Where is a book,
That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack
If that she learn not of her eye to look?
No face is fair that is not full so black.
King
O, paradox! Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons and the school of night,
And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.
Berowne
Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
O, if in black my lady's brows be decked,
It mourns that painting and usurping hair
Should ravish doters with a false aspect:
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favor turns the fashion of the days,
For native blood is counted painting now.
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints itself black to imitate her brow.
Dumaine
To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.
Longaville
And since her time are colliers counted bright.
King
And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack.
Dumaine
Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.
Berowne
Your mistresses dare never come in rain,
For fear their colors should be washed away.
King
‘Twere good yours did, for, sir, to tell you plain,
I'll find a fairer face not washed today.
Berowne
I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.
King
No devil will fright thee then so much as she.
Dumaine
I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.
Longaville, (showing his shoe)
Look, here's thy love; my foot and her face see.
Berowne
O, if the streets were pavèd with thine eyes.
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.
Dumaine
O vile! Then as she goes, what upward lies
The street should see as she walked overhead.
King
But what of this? Are we not all in love?
Berowne
Nothing so sure, and thereby all forsworn.
King
Then leave this chat, and, good Berowne, now prove
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.