Shakespeare's Monologues
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Berowne — “Sweet Lords, sweet lovers, O let us embrace” — Love's Labour's Lost, Act 4, Scene 3, line 160
Love's Labour's Lost
·IV iii 160 ·
Verse
Berowne Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be: The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree: We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline, That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her majesty? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She an attending star, scarce seen a light. Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron: O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,-- Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not: To things of sale a seller's praise belongs, She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye: Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy: O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine. Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath? where is a book? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look: No face is fair that is not full so black. The hue of dungeons and the suit of night; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. O, if in black my lady's brows be deck'd, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days, For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. 
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Original: Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace!
Modern: My dear friends, my fellow lovers, let’s celebrate together!
Original: As true we are as flesh and blood can be:
Modern: We’re only human, as real and flawed as anyone can be.
Original: The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;
Modern: The tides will come and go, the sun will rise;
Original: Young blood doth not obey an old decree:
Modern: Young passionate people can’t follow outdated rules.
Original: We cannot cross the cause why we were born;
Modern: We can’t go against our natural purpose for being alive.
Original: Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
Modern: So we all have no choice but to break our vows.
Original: Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,
Modern: “Did they?” you ask? Anyone who sees the divine Rosaline—
Original: That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,
Modern: Who wouldn’t be like an uncivilized man from India
Original: At the first opening of the gorgeous east,
Modern: Seeing the sunrise for the first time,
Original: Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind
Modern: And bow down his head, struck blind by her beauty,
Original: Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?
Modern: And fall to the ground to kiss it in humble worship?
Original: What peremptory eagle-sighted eye
Modern: What bold person with eagle-sharp vision
Original: Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
Modern: Would dare to look directly at her perfect forehead,
Original: That is not blinded by her majesty?
Modern: Without being blinded by how magnificent she is?
Original: My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron:
Modern: Then I must not have eyes, and I must not be Biron.
Original: O, but for my love, day would turn to night!
Modern: Oh, without my love, daytime would become as dark as night!
Original: Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty
Modern: The very best of all beauty and coloring
Original: Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek,
Modern: Come together, like merchants at a market, in her beautiful face,
Original: Where several worthies make one dignity,
Modern: Where many excellent qualities combine into one perfection,
Original: Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.
Modern: Where nothing is missing that could possibly be desired.
Original: Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,–
Modern: Give me the fanciest words from every elegant language—
Original: Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not:
Modern: No, forget artificial fancy speech! She doesn’t need it.
Original: To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs,
Modern: Only things for sale need a salesman’s exaggerated praise,
Original: She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.
Modern: She’s beyond praise; any praise I give falls short and ruins the attempt.
Original: A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn,
Modern: A shriveled old hermit who’s lived a hundred years
Original: Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:
Modern: Could lose fifty years just by looking into her eyes.
Original: Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,
Modern: Her beauty makes old age look fresh and new,
Original: And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy:
Modern: And makes someone using a crutch feel like a baby again.
Original: O, ‘tis the sun that maketh all things shine.
Modern: Oh, she’s like the sun that makes everything else bright!
Original: Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
Modern: Is dark ebony wood like her? Oh, what sacred wood!
Original: A wife of such wood were felicity.
Modern: A wife made of such material would be perfect happiness.
Original: O, who can give an oath? where is a book?
Modern: Oh, who can swear an oath? Where’s a Bible?
Original: That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,
Modern: So I can swear that beauty isn’t really beautiful
Original: If that she learn not of her eye to look:
Modern: Unless it learns how to look from her eyes.
Original: No face is fair that is not full so black.
Modern: No face is truly beautiful unless it’s as dark as hers.
Original: Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
Modern: Devils are most tempting when they disguise themselves as angels.
Original: O, if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,
Modern: Oh, if my lady’s eyebrows are decorated in black,
Original: It mourns that painting and usurping hair
Modern: It’s in mourning because makeup and fake hair
Original: Should ravish doters with a false aspect;
Modern: Should seduce foolish admirers with artificial looks,
Original: And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Modern: And so she was born to make darkness beautiful.
Original: Her favour turns the fashion of the days,
Modern: Her beauty changes what’s fashionable,
Original: For native blood is counted painting now;
Modern: Because natural rosy complexions are now considered fake-looking,
Original: And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Modern: And so the color red, wanting to avoid criticism,
Original: Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.
Modern: Covers itself with black, trying to copy her eyebrows.
“Love’s Labour’s Lost” opens with Ferdinand, the King of Navarre, and his three courtiers—Berowne, Longaville, and Dumain—taking a solemn oath to dedicate three years to scholarly pursuits while forswearing the company of women, fasting, and sleeping only three hours per night. Their noble intentions are immediately complicated by the arrival of the Princess of France and her three attending ladies—Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine—who come on a diplomatic mission regarding Aquitaine. Despite their vows, all four men quickly fall in love with the visiting ladies, though they initially attempt to hide their feelings from one another.
The romantic complications intensify when each man tries to secretly woo his chosen lady while believing himself to be the only oath-breaker. Comic relief is provided by a cast of eccentric characters including Don Armado, a bombastic Spanish knight who loves the country wench Jaquenetta; Costard, a simple clown; and the pedantic schoolmaster Holofernes. The ladies, aware of the men’s affections, decide to test their suitors’ sincerity by disguising themselves at a masque, leading to a delightful scene of mistaken identities where each man woos the wrong woman.
The play builds toward what seems like a conventional comic resolution with multiple betrothals, but Shakespeare subverts expectations in the final act. News arrives that the Princess’s father, the King of France, has died, casting a somber shadow over the festivities. The ladies impose a year-long trial on their suitors—the men must prove their love’s constancy through a period of good works and patient waiting. The play concludes unusually for a Shakespearean comedy, with promises of future union rather than immediate marriages, ending with the famous songs of Spring and Winter that celebrate the eternal cycle of seasons and human nature.
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