« AnteriorContinuar »
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 at
tendants. 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,
Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor fout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to night?
Or ever, but in visors, show their faces ? This pert Birón was out of countenance quite.
Ros. 0! they were all in lamentable cases! The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Prin. Birón did swear himself out of all suit.
Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his sword: No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute.
Kath. Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart; And trow you, what he call'd me? Prin.
Kath. Yes, in good faith.
Go, sickness as thou art! Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute.
caps +5. But will you hear the king is my love sworn.
Prin. And quick Birón bath plighted faith to me. Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. Mar. Dumain is mine, aj 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 under
stood. 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. Ayaunt, perplexity! What shall we do, If they return in their own shapes to woo?
Ros. Good inadam, 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 bere, 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,
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand.
[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 prin
cess ? 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.
[Erit. 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.
thou, Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou now s'? King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of
To lead you to our court: vouchsafe it then.
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men.
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unsullied lily, I protest,
I would not yield to be your house's guest:
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game; A mess of Russians left us but of late.
King. How, madam? Russians ?
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. We four, indeed, confronted were with four In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour, And talk'd apace, and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. Biron. This jest is dry to me.-Fair, gentle
sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet With eyes best seeing heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light: Your capacity Is of that nature, that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor.