Right joyful of your reformation.
Biron. 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 [860] my leave.
King. No, madam; we will bring you on your way.
Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play;
Jack hath not Jill: these ladies’ courtesy
Might well have made our sport a comedy.
865 King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then ’twill end.