Читать книгу The Complete Works of Shakespeare онлайн

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It cannot be, it is impossible:

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros.

Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it; then if sickly ears,

Deaf’d with the clamors of their own dear groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,

And I will have you and that fault withal;

But if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault,

Right joyful of your reformation.

Ber.

A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

Prin. [To the King.]

Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave.

King.

No, madam, we will bring you on your way.

Ber.

Our wooing doth not end like an old play:

Jack hath not Gill. These ladies’ courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy.

King.

Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth an’ a day,

And then ’twill end.