DUMAINE. O most divine Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAINE. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is but corporal. There you lie. DUMAINE. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-coloured raven was well noted. DUMAINE. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say. Her shoulder is with child. DUMAINE. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days, but then no sun must shine. DUMAINE. O, that I had my wish! LONGAVILLE. And I had mine! KING. And I mine too, good Lord! BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word? DUMAINE. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will remembered be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAINE. Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit. DUMAINE. [_Dumaine reads his sonnet_.] _On a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished himself the heaven’s breath. “Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so!” But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn. Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love._ This will I send, and something else more plain, That shall express my true love’s fasting pain. O, would the King, Berowne and Longaville Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note, For none offend where all alike do dote. LONGAVILLE. [_Comes forward_.] Dumaine, thy love is far from charity, That in love’s grief desir’st society. You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o’erheard and taken napping so.