A Mess

Agreeably to the spirit of your motto, I have "made a note" of the following parallel passages:— Biron. Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess. King. What? Biron. That you three fools lacked me fool, to make up the mess; He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I, Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. Dumain. Now the number is even. Biron. True, true; we are four. *Love's Labour's Lost*. Act. IV. Scene 3. "Avarice is the mother; she bryngs forth bribe taking, and bribe-taking perverting of judgement there lackes a forth thing…