045 King. In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!
Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name.
Long. Am I the first that have been perjured so?
Biron. I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know:
[049] Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society.
050 The shape of Love’s Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.
Long. 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.
Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose: