That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go.
How will I make him fawn, and beg, and seek;
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes;
And shape his service wholly to my behests;
And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
So portent-like would I o’ersway his state
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
Love’s Labor Lost.