From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They are the ground, the books, the academes From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire
From women's eyes this idea I take: They are the books, the arts, the schools, That show, contain, and nourish all the world:
Biron · Act 4, Scene 3
In his great defense of love, Biron declares that women's eyes are the only true source of knowledge and inspiration. The statement inverts the academy's entire premise and makes the feminine, not reason, the foundation of wisdom. It is a radical repositioning of value that the play sustains to the end.
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.
Let us once break our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.
Biron · Act 4, Scene 3
Biron delivers this paradox when defending the men's perjury to the other lords. The line is the play's philosophical heart: it argues that fidelity to false principles destroys the self more thoroughly than breaking those principles to find one's true nature. It reframes perjury as honesty and honesty as a form of spiritual death.
[Reads] On a day--alack the day!-- Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish himself the heaven’s breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn; Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I send, and something else more plain, That shall express my true love’s fasting pain. O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville, Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note; For none offend where all alike do dote.
[Reads] On a day—alas, the day!— Love, whose month is always May, Saw a flower, wonderfully fair, Floating in the playful air: Through the soft leaves, the wind, Unseen, can find its way; So the lover, sick with longing, Wishes himself the breath of heaven. Air, he says, may your cheeks blow; Air, how I wish I could triumph like that! But alas, my hand is sworn Never to pick you from your thorn; Alas, the vow, for youth isn’t ready, Youth is too eager to pluck a sweet flower! Don’t call it a sin in me, That I’ve broken my vow for you; You, for whom Jove would swear That Juno is no more than a black woman; And deny himself for Jove, Becoming mortal for your love. This I will send, along with something more simple, That will show my true love’s painful fasting. Oh, if only the king, Biron, and Longaville, Were lovers too! That way, to set an example, I’d wipe away a false promise from my forehead; For no one sins when everyone loves the same way.
Dumain · Act 4, Scene 3
Dumain reads aloud the sonnet he has written to Katharine, confessing his love and defending his perjury as justified by her beauty. The speech lands because it is both ridiculous and touching—formal in structure, genuine in feeling, and utterly betrayed by the fact that Costard will mix it up with Biron's letter. The sonnet shows love at the moment it tries hardest and fails most completely to speak truthfully.
