King monologue (Act 1) — Love's Labour's Lost

Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain, A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony, A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate In high-born words the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I, But I protest I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy.