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[Berowne tears the letter.]

King.

How now, what is in you? Why dost thou tear it?

Ber.

A toy, my liege, a toy; your Grace needs not fear it.

Long.

It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.

Dum. [Gathering up the pieces.]

It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name.

Ber. [To Costard.]

Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame.

Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.

King.

What?

Ber.

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.

O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

Dum.

Now the number is even.

Ber.

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.]

Ber.

Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace!

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.