LONGAVILLE.
Ay me! I am forsworn.
BEROWNE.
Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
KING.
In love, I hope. Sweet fellowship in shame.
BEROWNE.
One drunkard loves another of the name.
LONGAVILLE.
Am I the first that have been perjured so?
BEROWNE.
I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know.
Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
The shape of love’s Tyburn, that hangs up simplicity.
LONGAVILLE.
I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.
O sweet Maria, empress of my love,
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.
BEROWNE.
O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose.
Disfigure not his shop.
LONGAVILLE.
This same shall go.
[He reads the sonnet.]