How now, what is in you? why dost thou tear it?
Ber. A toy my Liedge, a toy: your grace needes not
feare it
Long. It did moue him to passion, and therefore let's
heare it
Dum. It is Berowns writing, and heere is his name
Ber. Ah you whoreson loggerhead, you were borne
to doe me shame.
Guilty my Lord, guilty: I confesse, I confesse
Kin. What?
Ber. That you three fooles, lackt mee foole, to make
vp the messe.
He, he, and you: and you my Liedge, and I,
Are picke-purses in Loue, and we deserue to die.
O dismisse this audience, and I shall tell you more
Dum. Now the number is euen
Berow. True true, we are fowre: will these Turtles
be gone?
Kin. Hence sirs, away
Clo. Walk aside the true folke, & let the traytors stay
Ber. Sweet Lords, sweet Louers, O let vs imbrace,
As true we are as flesh and bloud can be,
The Sea will ebbe and flow, heauen will shew his face:
Young bloud doth not obey an old decree.
We cannot crosse the cause why we are borne:
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworne
King. What, did these rent lines shew some loue of
thine?
Ber. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heauenly Rosaline,
That (like a rude and sauage man of Inde.
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