_Biron._ [_To Costard_] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead! you were born to do me shame. 200 Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess. _King._ What? _Biron._ That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess: He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I, Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. 205 O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. _Dum._ Now the number is even. _Biron._ True, true; we are four. Will these turtles be gone? _King._ Hence, sirs; away! _Cost._ Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. [_Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta._ _Biron._ Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! 210 As true we are as flesh and blood can be: The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree: We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. 215 _King._ What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? _Biron._ Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline, That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind 220 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? _King._ What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now? 225 My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She an attending star, scarce seen a light. _Biron._ My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron: O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty 230 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: 235 To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs, She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye: Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, 240 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. _Biron._ Is ebony like her? O wood divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. 245 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, 250 The hue of dungeons and the school of night; And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well.