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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.
M."BULKELEY’in PRINCESS of FRANCE, Tacenty Veicus, my frozen Mewoordig
Landon Printed for J.Ben British Library Strand Sept! 2011785.