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Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?

Enter Longaville [with a paper]. The King steps aside.

What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, ear.

Ber. [Aside.]

Now in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Long.

Ay me, I am forsworn!

Ber. [Aside.]

Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

[King] [Aside.]

In love, I hope—sweet fellowship in shame.

Ber. [Aside.]

One drunkard loves another of the name.

Long.

Am I the first that have been perjur’d so?

Ber. [Aside.]

I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know.

Thou makest the triumphery, the corner-cap of society,

The shape of love’s Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.

Long.

I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.

O sweet Maria, empress of my love,

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose!

Ber. [Aside.]

O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose:

Disfigure not his shop.

Long.

This same shall go.

He reads the sonnet.

“Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,