King Edward the Third | Page 8

virtue in the
world. Better than beautiful thou must begin, Devise for fair a fairer
word than fair, And every ornament that thou wouldest praise, Fly it a
pitch above the soar of praise. For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;
For, were thy admiration ten times more, Ten times ten thousand more
the worth exceeds Of that thou art to praise, thy praises worth. Begin; I
will to contemplate the while: Forget not to set down, how passionate,
How heart sick, and how full of languishment, Her beauty makes me.
LODOWICK. Write I to a woman?
KING EDWARD. What beauty else could triumph over me, Or who
but women do our love lays greet? What, thinkest thou I did bid thee
praise a horse?
LODOWICK. Of what condition or estate she is, Twere requisite that I

should know, my Lord.
KING EDWARD. Of such estate, that hers is as a throne, And my
estate the footstool where she treads: Then maist thou judge what her
condition is By the proportion of her mightiness. Write on, while I
peruse her in my thoughts.-- Her voice to music or the nightingale-- To
music every summer leaping swain Compares his sunburnt lover when
she speaks; And why should I speak of the nightingale? The
nightingale sings of adulterate wrong, And that, compared, is too
satyrical; For sin, though sin, would not be so esteemed, But, rather,
virtue sin, sin virtue deemed. Her hair, far softer than the silk worm's
twist, Like to a flattering glass, doth make more fair The yellow
Amber:--like a flattering glass Comes in too soon; for, writing of her
eyes, I'll say that like a glass they catch the sun, And thence the hot
reflection doth rebound Against the breast, and burns my heart within.
Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul Upon this voluntary
ground of love!-- Come, Lodowick, hast thou turned thy ink to gold? If
not, write but in letters Capital My mistress' name, and it will gild thy
paper: Read, Lord, read; Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears With
the sweet hearing of thy poetry.
LODOWICK. I have not to a period brought her praise.
KING EDWARD. Her praise is as my love, both infinite, Which
apprehend such violent extremes, That they disdain an ending period.
Her beauty hath no match but my affection; Hers more than most, mine
most and more than more: Hers more to praise than tell the sea by
drops, Nay, more than drop the massy earth by sands, And sand by
sand print them in memory: Then wherefore talkest thou of a period To
that which craves unended admiration? Read, let us hear.
LODOWICK. 'More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades,'--
KING EDWARD. That line hath two faults, gross and palpable:
Comparest thou her to the pale queen of night, Who, being set in dark,
seems therefore light? What is she, when the sun lifts up his head, But
like a fading taper, dim and dead? My love shall brave the eye of
heaven at noon, And, being unmasked, outshine the golden sun.
LODOWICK. What is the other fault, my sovereign Lord?
KING EDWARD. Read o'er the line again.
LODOWICK. 'More fair and chaste'--
KING EDWARD. I did not bid thee talk of chastity, To ransack so the

treasure of her mind; For I had rather have her chased than chaste. Out
with the moon line, I will none of it; And let me have her likened to the
sun: Say she hath thrice more splendour than the sun, That her
perfections emulate the sun, That she breeds sweets as plenteous as the
sun, That she doth thaw cold winter like the sun, That she doth cheer
fresh summer like the sun, The she doth dazzle gazers like the sun; And,
in this application to the sun, Bid her be free and general as the sun,
Who smiles upon the basest weed that grows As lovingly as on the
fragrant rose. Let's see what follows that same moonlight line.
LODOWICK. 'More fair and chaste than is the queen of shades, More
bold in constance'--
KING EDWARD. In constance! than who?
LODOWICK. 'Than Judith was.'
KING EDWARD. O monstrous line! Put in the next a sword, And I
shall woo her to cut of my head. Blot, blot, good Lodowick! Let us hear
the next.
LODOWICK. There's all that yet is done.
KING EDWARD. I thank thee then; thou hast done little ill, But what
is done, is passing, passing ill. No, let the Captain talk of boisterous
war, The prisoner of emured dark constraint, The sick man best sets
down the pangs of death, The man that starves the sweetness of a feast,
The frozen soul the benefit of fire, And every grief