Dumain is one of the four young lords of Navarre who swears to pursue a three-year program of study, fasting, and celibacy—a vow he breaks almost immediately upon the arrival of the Princess of France and her attendants. Though he speaks less frequently than his companions, particularly Biron and Ferdinand, Dumain’s arc is nonetheless essential to the play’s central theme: the impossibility of ordering human life according to abstract principle. When the ladies arrive, Dumain falls in love with Katharine, one of the Princess’s attendants, and like the others, he begins to compose sonnets and write letters expressing his devotion. His courtship is playful but earnest, and his eventual confession of love—along with the others’—becomes part of the larger comic catastrophe in which all four men are exposed as oath-breakers.
What distinguishes Dumain from his peers is a kind of straightforward earnestness beneath the pretense. He does not deliver elaborate speeches defending love as an academic pursuit, nor does he indulge in the kind of witty self-awareness that Biron displays. Instead, he simply falls in love and acts on it, his sonnets and love tokens following naturally from desire rather than from any rhetorical justification. When exposed, he is among the first to acknowledge the folly of the men’s original plan, suggesting that they “resolve to woo these girls of France” and “win them too.” His simplicity makes him, in some ways, the most honest of the four—he does not need to talk his way into or out of love; he simply loves. Yet this very simplicity also leaves him vulnerable to the ladies’ mockery and, ultimately, to the penance he must endure.
By the play’s end, Dumain, like his companions, accepts that love cannot be denied and that the attempt to do so through legislation and vows is inherently absurd. His final exchange with Katharine establishes the terms of their eventual union: he will wait a year, proving his constancy through patience and service, and only then may they marry. This resolution suggests that while Dumain and his companions were foolish to think they could escape desire, they are not irredeemable. The year of waiting becomes a test not of their ability to suppress love, but of their willingness to grow beyond the shallow affectations and rhetorical games that characterized their initial courtship. In this, Dumain exemplifies the play’s ultimate message: that maturity lies not in denying human nature, but in learning to acknowledge it with humility and grace.
I am forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love.
I am swearing falsely, which is a clear sign of falsehood, if I love.
Dumain · Act 3, Scene 1
Alone on stage, Biron wrestles with the contradiction between his oath and his heart. The line captures the central predicament of the play: that love itself is a form of faithlessness to principle, and that honesty about desire requires dishonesty about vows. It is the moment Biron accepts that contradiction and chooses love.
[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.
But what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife?
But what about me, my love? What about me? A wife?
Dumain · Act 5, Scene 2
Dumain, having just vowed a year of service, suddenly asks what he gets in return—a wife. The line works because it is the comic deflation of romance by appetite, and because Katharine's answer demands he prove his devotion first. It reminds us that love in this play is not just feeling but negotiation, not just gift but contract.
Fellow oath-taker and courtier
Fellow oath-taker and courtier
Fellow oath-taker; witness to his love
His lady; eventually promised to wait a year for marriage
Attendant to the Princess
Attendant to the Princess
