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Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, can passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

[Wish’d] himself the heavens’ 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 Ethiop 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 perjur’d note:

For none offend where all alike do dote.

Long. [Advancing.]

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.

King [Advancing.]

Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such;