Speeches (Lines) for Maria in "Love's Labour's Lost"

Princess of France. Know you the man?

Maria. I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast,
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville:
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd;
Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms:
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,
If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,
Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
It should none spare that come within his power.

Princess of France. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?

Maria. They say so most that most his humours know.

Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

Maria. That last is Biron, the merry madcap lord:
Not a word with him but a jest.

Boyet. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.

Maria. Two hot sheeps, marry.

Boyet. And wherefore not ships?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.

Maria. You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

Boyet. So you grant pasture for me.

Maria. Not so, gentle beast:
My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet. Belonging to whom?

Maria. To my fortunes and me.

Rosaline. Thou art an old love-monger and speakest skilfully.

Maria. He is Cupid's grandfather and learns news of him.

Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Maria. No.

Rosaline. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
Finely put on, indeed!

Maria. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes
at the brow.

Costard. By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Maria. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.

Boyet. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!
Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.

Maria. Wide o' the bow hand! i' faith, your hand is out.

Costard. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

Maria. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

Katharine. Yes, madam, and moreover
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover,
A huge translation of hypocrisy,
Vilely compiled, profound simplicity.

Maria. This and these pearls to me sent Longaville:
The letter is too long by half a mile.

Princess of France. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart
The chain were longer and the letter short?

Maria. Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Rosaline. The blood of youth burns not with such excess
As gravity's revolt to wantonness.

Maria. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note
As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;
Since all the power thereof it doth apply
To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

Dumain. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

Maria. Name it.

Dumain. Fair lady,--

Maria. Say you so? Fair lord,--
Take that for your fair lady.

Princess of France. Biron did swear himself out of all suit.

Maria. Dumain was at my service, and his sword:
No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute.

Katharine. And Longaville was for my service born.

Maria. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

Longaville. What says Maria?

Maria. At the twelvemonth's end
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Longaville. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Maria. The liker you; few taller are so young.