117: _caret_] _carent_ Nicholson conj. 119: _invention? imitari_] Theobald. _invention imitarie_ Qq Ff. _invention? imitating_ Collier MS. 120: _tired_] _tyred_ Qq Ff. _try’d_ Theobald. _’tired_ Capell. _trained_ Heath conj. 123, 124: _one of the strange queen’s lords_] _to one of the strange queen’s ladies_ Theobald. 125–129: _I will...Biron_] given to Nathaniel in Qq Ff. See note (XII). 128: _writing_] Rowe. _written_ Qq Ff. 129: _in_] _it_ Q2. _Sir Nathaniel_] Capell. _Sir Holofernes_ Qq Ff. om. Theobald. 129–135: Given to Dull by Rowe. 133: _royal_] om. Ff Q2. 137: [Exeunt...] _Exit._ Qq Ff. 145: _before_] Q1. _being_ Ff Q2. _repast_] _request_ Heath conj. 147: _or_] Qq F1 F2. _and_ F3 F4. 148: _ben venuto_] Rowe (ed. 2). _bien venuto_ Q1 F2 F3 F4. _bien vonuto_ F1 Q2. _bien venu too_ Edd conj. ~~~~~ SCENE III. _The same._ _Enter_ BIRON, _with a paper_. _Biron._ The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch,— pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is 5 as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o’ my side! I will not love: if I do, hang me; i’ faith, I will not. O, but her eye,—by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By 10 heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would 15 not care a pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan! [_Stands aside._ _Enter the_ King, _with a paper_. _King._ Ay me! _Biron._ [_Aside_] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left 20 pap. In faith, secrets! _King_ [_reads_]. So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows: 25 Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light; Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep: No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; 30 So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show: But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. 35 O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel, No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.