William Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost in the complete original text.
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Love's Labour's Lost

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Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene I.—The KING OF
NAVARRE'S Park

Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my
sense of hearing.
Moth. [Singing.] Concolinel,—
Arm. 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?
Arm. 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 by singing
love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed
up love by smelling love; with your hat pent-
house-like o'er the shop of your eyes; with your
arms crossed 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 be-
tray nice wenches, that would be betrayed with-
out these; and make them men of note,—do you
note me?—that most are affected to these.
Arm. How hast thou purchased this ex-
perience?
Moth. By my penny of observation.
Arm. But O—but O,—
Moth. 'The hobby-horse is forgot.'
Arm. Callest 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?
Arm. Almost I had.
Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart.
Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy.
Moth. And out of heart, master: all those
three I will prove.
Arm. 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.
Arm. I am all these three.
Moth. And three times as much more, and
yet nothing at all.
Arm. Fetch hither the swain: he must carry
me a letter.
Moth. A message well sympathized: a horse
to be ambassador for an ass.
Arm. 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.
Arm. The way is but short: away!
Moth. As swift as lead, sir.
Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?
Moth. Minime, honest master; or rather,
master, no.
Arm. 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?
Arm. 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.
Arm. 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.
Arm. Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy
l'envoy; begin.
Cost. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy! no salve
in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plan-
tain: no l'envoy, no l'envoy: no salve, sir, but a
plantain.
Arm. 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?
Arm. 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.
Arm. 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.
Arm. 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?
Cost. 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.
Arm. 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.
Cost. 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.
Arm. But tell me; how was there a costard
broken in a shin?
Moth. I will tell you sensibly.
Cost. 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.
Arm. We will talk no more of this matter.
Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin.
Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.
Cost. O! marry me to one Frances: I smell
some l'envoy, some goose, in this.
Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee
at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert
immured, restrained, captivated, bound.
Cost. True, true, and now you will be my pur-
gation and let me loose.
Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from
durance; and in lieu thereof, impose upon thee
nothing but this:—[Giving a letter.] Bear this
significant to the country maid Jaquenetta.
[Giving money.] 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.
Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my
incony Jew! [Exit MOTH.
Now will I look to his remuneration. Remune-
ration! O! that's the Latin word for three far-
things: 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.
Ber. O! my good knave Costard, exceedingly
well met.
Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation
riband may a man buy for a remuneration?
Ber. What is a remuneration?
Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.
Ber. Why then, three-farthing-worth of silk.
Cost. I thank your worship. God be wi'
you.
Ber. Stay, slave; I must employ thee:
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.
Cost. When would you have it done, sir?
Ber. O, this afternoon.
Cost. Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.
Ber. O, thou knowest not what it is.
Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it.
Ber. Why, villain, thou must know first.
Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow
morning.
Ber. 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. [Gives Mm a shilling.]
There's thy guerdon: go.
Cost. Garden, O sweet garden! better than
remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better.
Most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print.
Garden! remuneration! [Exit.
Ber. 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-rimes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,
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! 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 wightly 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.
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