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; 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? 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? Ros. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, BOYET. Ladies, withdraw, the gallants are at hand. [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. BOYET. I will; and fo will the, I know, my lord. [Exit. At wakes and waffels, meetings, markets, fairs: A mean most mainly; and, in ufhering, 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. To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. KING. Rebuke me not for that, which you provoke; PRIN. You nick-name virtue; vice you should have fpoke. For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. A world of torments though I should endure. I would not yield to be your house's guest: A mefs of Ruffians left us but of late. KING. How, madam? Ruffians? Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state. They did not blefs us with one happy word. Is of that nature, as to your huge store Wife things feem foolish, and rich things but poor. Ros. But that you take what doth to you belong, BIRON. I cannot give you lefs." Ros. Which of the vizors was it that you wore ? 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; |