CATH, Bleat foftly then, the butcher hears you cry. BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen

As is the razor's edge, invifible,

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. Farewel, mad wenches; you have fimple wits.
[Exeunt king and lords.

PRIN. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.

Are these the breed of wits fo wondred at?

BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puft out. Ros. Well-liking wits they have; grofs, grofs; fat, fat. PRIN. O poverty in wit-kingly?

-

•poor flout

Will they not (think you) hang themselves to night?
Or ever, but in vizors, fhew their faces ?
This pert Biron was out of count'nance quite.
Ros. O they were all in lamentable cases.
The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
PRIN. Biron did fwear himself out of all fuit.
MAR. Dumain was at my fervice, and his fword :
No, point, quoth I; my fervant ftrait was mute.
CATH. Lord Longueville faid, I came o'er his heart;
And, trow you, what he call'd me?

PRIN. Qualm, perhaps.

CATH. Yes, in good faith.

PRIN. Go, fickness as thou art!

Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? the king is my love fworn.

PRIN. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me, CATH. And Longueville was for my service born. MAR. Dumain is mine, as fure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty miftreffes, give ear: Immediately they will again be here

In their own fhapes; for it can never be,

They will digeft 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 this fummer air.

PRIN. How, blow? how, blow? speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies, mafkt, are rofes in their bud: Dismaskt, their damask sweet commixture shewn, Are angels vailing clouds: 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 ftill, as well known, as difguis'd;
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Difguis'd, like Mufcovites, in shapeless gear;
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their fhallow fhows, and prologue vilely penn'd,
And their rough carriage fo ridiculous,
Should be prefented at our tent to us.

BOYET. Ladies, withdraw, the gallants are at hand.
PRIN. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er the land.

[Exeunt. SCENE VII. Before the Princess's pavilion. Enter the King, Biron, Longueville, and Dumain, ip their own habits; Boyet meeting them.

KING. Fair fir, God fave you! Where's the princefs?

BOYET. Gone to her tent.
Please it your majesty, command me any service to her?
KING. That fhe vouchfafe me audience for one word.

BOYET. I will; and fo will the, I know, my lord. [Exit.
BIRON. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas;
And utters it again, when Jove doth please:
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares

At wakes and waffels, meetings, markets, fairs:
And we that fell by grofs, 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 lifp: why, this is he,
That kift away his hand in courtesy;
This is the ape of form, monfieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay, he can fing

A mean most mainly; and, in ufhering,
Mend him who can; the ladies call him sweet;
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.
This is the flower, that smiles on every one,
To fhew his teeth, as white as whale his bone.-
And confciences, that will not die in debt,

Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

KING. A blifter on his fweet tongue with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part.

SCENE VIII. Enter the Princefs, Rofaline, Maria, Catharine, Boyet, and attendants,

BIRON. See, where it comes; behaviour, what wert thou, 'Till this man fhew'd thee? and what art thou now?

KING. All hail, fweet madam, and fair time of day !

PRIN. Fair in all hail is foul, as I conceive.
KING. Conftrue my speeches better, if you may.
PRIN. Then with me better, I will give you leave.
KING. We come to vifit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then.
PRIN. This field fhall hold me, and fo 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 fpoke.

For virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unfully'd lilly, I proteft,

A world of torments though I should endure.

I would not yield to be your house's guest:
So much I hate a breaking cause to be
Of heav'nly oaths, vow'd with integrity.
KING. O, you have liv'd in defolation here,
Unseen, unvifited, much to our shame.
PRIN. Not fo, my lord; it is not fo, I swear ;
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game.

A mefs of Ruffians left us but of late.

KING. How, madam? Ruffians?
PRIN. Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state.
Ros. Madam, fpeak true. It is not fo, my lord!
My lady, to the manner of these days,
In courtely gives undeferving praise.
We four, indeed, confronted were with four
In Ruffian habit: here they stay'd an hour,
And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,

They did not blefs 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, fweet,
Your wit makes wife things foolish: when we greet
With eyes best seeing heaven's fiery eye,
By light we lofe light; your capacity

Is of that nature, as to your huge store

Wife things feem foolish, and rich things but poor.
Ros. This proves you wife and rich; for in my eye-
BIRON. I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Ros. But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to fnatch words from my tongue.
BIRON. O, I am yours, and all that I poffefs.
Ros. All the fool mine?

BIRON. I cannot give you lefs."

Ros. Which of the vizors was it that you wore ?
BIRON. Where? when? what vizor? why demand

this?

Ros. There, then, that vizor, that fuperfluous cafe, That hid the worse, and fhew'd the better face.

you

KING. We are defcried; they'll mock us now downright DUM. Let us confefs, and turn it to a jest.

PRIN. Amaz'd, my lord? why looks your highness sad? Ros. Help, hold his brows, he'll fwoon: why look you pale ?

Sea-fick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

BIRON. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out?

Here ftand I, lady, dart thy fkill at me ;

Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;