Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense: so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings, Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. Ros. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. [Exeunt King, Lords, Moth, Musick, and attendants. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at? Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. Ros. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to night? This pert Birón was out of countenance quite. Prin. Qualm, perhaps. Kath. Yes, in good faith. Prin. Go, sickness as thou art! Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute But will caps 48 you hear? the king is my love sworn. Prin. And quick Birón hath plighted faith to me. Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes; for it can never be, They will digest this harsh indignity. Prin. Will they return? Boyet. They will, they will, God knows; And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: Therefore, change favours; and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in the summer air. Prin. How blow? how blow? speak to be understood. Boyet. Fair ladies, mask'd, are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds 49, or roses blown. Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do, If they return in their own shapes to woo? Ros. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, Let's mock them still, as well known, as disguis'd: Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear: And wonder, what they were; and to what end Their shallow shows, and prologue vilely penn'd, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. Boyet. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land. [Exeunt Princess, Ros. Kath, and Maria. Enter the King, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in their proper habits. King. Fair sir, God save you! Where is the princess? Boyet. Gone to her tent: Please it your majesty, Command me any service to her thither? King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit. Biron. This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedlar: and retails his wares At wakes and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve: He can carve too, and lisp: Why, this is he, That kiss'd away his hand in courtesy; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and, in ushering, Mend him who can: the ladies call him, sweet; King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part! Enter the Princess, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants. Biron. See where it comes!-Behaviour, what wert thou, Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou now s1? King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive. To lead you to our court: vouchsafe it then. Prin. This field shall hold me; and so hold your VOW: Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men. King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke; The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nick-name virtue: vice you should have spoke; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, King. How, madam? Russians? Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state. Ros. Madam, speak true:-It is not so my lord; My lady, (to the manner of the days,) In courtesy, gives undeserving praise. sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor. |