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These worms for loving, that art most in love?

Your eyes do make no [coaches;] in your tears

There is no certain princess that appears;

You’ll not be perjur’d, ’tis a hateful thing;

Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!

But are you not asham’d? Nay, are you not,

All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot?

You found his mote, the King your mote did see;

But I a beam do find in each of three.

O, what a scene of fool’ry have I seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!

O me, with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat!

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,

And profound Salomon to tune a jig,

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumaine?

And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?

And where my liege’s? All about the breast!

A caudle ho!

King.

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view?

Ber.

Not you by me, but I betrayed to you:

I that am honest, I that hold it sin