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Long.

What says Maria?

Mar.

At the twelvemonth’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long.

I’ll stay with patience, but the time is long.

Mar.

The liker you; few taller are so young.

Ber.

Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me,

Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

What humble suit attends thy answer there.

Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros.

Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,

Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,

Which you on all estates will execute

That lie within the mercy of your wit.

To weed this wormwood from your fructful brain,

And therewithal to win me, if you please,

Without the which I am not to be won,

You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavor of your wit,

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Ber.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death?