Where is Love’s Labor’s Lost?
In the original, as in the version we have, women invade the lords’ austere and studious life. They flirt with the men, and poke fun at their ridiculous aspirations. Here are two versions of Berowne’s encounter with Rosaline:
| 1594 |
1599 |
| BEROWNE: |
Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. |
| ROSALINE: |
Pray you, do my commendations;
I would be glad to see it. |
| BEROWNE: |
I would you heard it groan. |
| ROSALINE: |
Is the fool sick? |
| BEROWNE: |
Sick at the heart. |
| ROSALINE: |
Alack, let it blood. |
| BEROWNE: |
Would that do it good? |
| ROSALINE: |
My physic says “ay.” |
| BEROWNE: |
Will you prick’t with your eye? |
| ROSALINE: |
No point, with my knife. |
| BEROWNE: |
Now, God save thy life! |
| ROSALINE: |
And yours from long living! |
| BEROWNE (retiring): I cannot stay thanksgiving. |
| (II.1.179-92) |
|
| BEROWNE: |
Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? |
| ROSALINE: |
Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? |
| BEROWNE: |
I know you did. |
| ROSALINE: |
How needless was it then to ask the question. |
| BEROWNE: |
You must not be so quick. |
| ROSALINE: |
‘Tis long of you that spur me with such questions. |
| BEROWNE: |
Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire. |
| ROSALINE: |
Not till it leave the rider in the mire. |
| BEROWNE: |
What time o’ day? |
| ROSALINE: |
The hour that fools should ask. |
| BEROWNE: |
Now fair befall your mask! |
| ROSALINE: |
Fair fall the face it covers! |
| BEROWNE: |
And send you many lovers! |
| ROSALINE: |
Amen, so you be none. |
| BEROWNE (retiring): Nay, then will I be gone. |
| (II.1.113-26) |
|
If you accept my (unprovable) theory that the version on the right is the newer, you can see that the first version — on the left — is less skillful, less comic and more brittle. Rosaline’s scorn goes beyond ridicule into viciousness, when she proposes to cure Berowne’s heart with her knife, ouch.
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