Ber. And what to me my Loue? and what to me? Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rack'd. You are attaint with faults and periurie: Therefore if you my fauor meane to get, A tweluemonth shall you spend, and neuer rest, But seeke the wearie beds of people sicke Du. But what to me my loue? but what to me? Kat. A wife? a beard, faire health, and honestie, With three-fold loue, I wish you all these three Du. O shall I say, I thanke you gentle wife? Kat. Not so my Lord, a tweluemonth and a day, Ile marke no words that smoothfac'd wooers say. Come when the King doth to my Ladie come: Then if I haue much loue, Ile giue you some Dum. Ile serue thee true and faithfully till then Kath. Yet sweare not, least ye be forsworne agen Lon. What saies Maria? Mari. At the tweluemonths end, Ile change my blacke Gowne, for a faithfull friend Lon. Ile stay with patience: but the time is long Mari. The liker you, few taller are so yong Ber. Studies my Ladie? Mistresse, looke on me, Behold the window of my heart, mine eie: What humble suite attends thy answer there, Impose some seruice on me for my loue Ros. Oft haue I heard of you my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you: and the worlds large tongue Proclaimes you for a man repleate with mockes, Full of comparisons, and wounding floutes: Which you on all estates will execute, That lie within the mercie of your wit. To weed this Wormewood from your fruitfull braine, And therewithall to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won: You shall this tweluemonth terme from day to day, Visit the speechlesse sicke, and still conuerse With groaning wretches: and your taske shall be, With all the fierce endeuour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile Ber. To moue wilde laughter in the throate of death? It cannot be, it is impossible. Mirth cannot moue a soule in agonie Ros. Why that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace, Which shallow laughing hearers giue to fooles: A iests prosperitie, lies in the eare Of him that heares it, neuer in the tongue Of him that makes it: then, if sickly eares, Deaft with the clamors of their owne deare grones, Will heare your idle scornes; continue then, And I will haue you, and that fault withall. But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shal finde you emptie of that fault, Right ioyfull of your reformation Ber. A tweluemonth? Well: befall what will befall, Ile iest a tweluemonth in an Hospitall Qu. I sweet my Lord, and so I take my leaue King. No Madam, we will bring you on your way Ber. Our woing doth not end like an old Play: Iacke hath not Gill: these Ladies courtesie Might wel haue made our sport a Comedie Kin. Come sir, it wants a tweluemonth and a day, And then 'twil end Ber. That's too long for a play. Enter Braggart. Brag. Sweet Maiesty vouchsafe me Qu. Was not that Hector? Dum. The worthie Knight of Troy