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They do it but in mocking merriment;
Ros. But shall we dance, if they desire us to't?
Prin. No; to the death, we will not move a foot: Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace; But, while 'tis spoke, each turn away her face. Boyet. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's
heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Prin. Therefore I do it; and, I make no doubt, The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There's no such sport, as sport by sport o'erthrown; To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own: So shall we stay, mocking intended game; And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.
[Trumpets sound within. Boyet. The trumpet sounds; be mask'd, the maskers
[The ladies mask.
Enter the King, Biron, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN,
in Russian habits, and mask'd; Moth, Musicians, and Attendants. Moth. All hail, the richest beauties on the earth! Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffata. Moth. A holy parcel of the fairest dames,
[The ladies turn their backs to him. That ever turn'd their backs—to mortal views !
Biron. Their eyes, villain, their eyes.
Moth. That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views ! Out
Boyet. True; out, indeed.
Moth. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, touchsafe Not to behold
Biron. Once to behold, rogue.
Moth. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,with your sun-beamed eyes
Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet; You were best call it, daughter-beamed eyes. Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me
out. Biron. Is this your perfectness ? be gone, you rogue. Ros. What would these strangers ? know their minds,
Boyet. What would you with the princess ?
King. Say to her, we have measur’d many miles,
Boyet. They say, that they have measur'd many a mile, To tread a measure with
Boyet. If, to come hither you have measur'd miles, And many miles; the princess bids you tell,
How many inches do fill up one mile.
Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.
Ros. How many weary steps,
Biron. We number nothing that we spend for you;
Ros. My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine (Those clouds remov’d,) upon our wat’ry eyne.
Ros. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water. King. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one
change: Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange. Ros. Play, music, then: nay, you must do it soon.
[Music plays. Not yet;~no dance :—thus change I like the moon. King. Will you not dance ? How come you thus es
trangd? Ros. You took the moon at full; but now she's chang’d.
King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.
Ros. Our ears vouchsafe it.
Ros. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance, We'll not be nice: take hands ;-we will not dance.
King. Why take we hands then?
Ros. Only to part friends :-
King. More measure of this measure; be not nice..
Ros. Then cannot we be bought: and so adieu ;
King. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.
[They converse apart. Biron. White-handed- mistress, one sweet word with
thee. Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.
Biron. Nay then, two treys, (an if you grow so nice,) Metheglin, wort, and malmsey ;-Well run, dice ! There's half a dozen sweets.
Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu !
Biron. One word in secret.
[They conterse apart.
Take that for your fair lady.
Dum. Please it you,
[They converse apart.
Long. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visor half.
Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman ;-Is not veal a calf?
Kath. No, I'll not be your half:
mocks ! Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.
Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. Long. One word in private with you, ere I die. Kath. Bleat softly then, the butcher hears you cry.
[They conderse apart. Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
As is the razor's edge invisible, 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!