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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 simple wits.

[Exeunt King, and Lords. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondred 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 ! 440 Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?

Or ever, but in visors, shew their faces ? This pert Biron was out of countenance quite.

Ros. O! they were all in lamentable cases ! The king was weeping ripe for a good word.

Prin. Biron 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?

450 Prin. Qualm, perhaps. Kath. Yes, in good faith. Prin. Go, sickness as thou art ! Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute

caps. But will you hear ? the king is my love sworn,

Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me, Kath. And Longaville was for my service born.


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M."BULKELEY’in PRINCESS of FRANCE, Tacenty Veicus, my frozen Mewoordig


Landon Printed for J.Ben British Library Strand Sept! 2011785.

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