« PreviousContinue »
Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.
Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:
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 summer air. Prin. How, blows how blow ? speak to be under
stood. Boyet. Fair ladies, mask'd, are roses in their bud; Dismask'd, 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,
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand,
Enter the King, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN,
in their own Habits.
King. Fair sir, God save you! Where's the prin.
cess? Boyet. Gone to her tent : Please it your majesty, Command me any service to her ? King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one
word. Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
[Exit. Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas ; And utters it again, when Jove doth please : 490 He is wit's pedlar; and retails his wares At wakes, and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs; : And we that sell by gross, 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 lisp: Why, this is he, That kiss'd away his hand in courtesy ; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice 500 In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and, in ushering, Mend him who can : the ladies call hiin, sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet : This is the flower that smiles on every one, To shew his teeth as white as whale his bone :
And consciences, that will not die in debt,
heart, That put Armado's page out of his part ! 510 Enter the Princess, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE,
Boyer, and Attendants. Biron. See, where it comes !-Behaviour, what
wert thou, Till this mad man shew'd thee? and what art thou
now? King. All hạil, sweet madam, and fair time of day! Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive. King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. Prin. Then wish me better, I will give you leave. King. We came to visit you; and purpose now
To lead you to our court : vouchsafe it then. Prin. This field shall hold me; and so hold your
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men. 520 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
As the unsully'd lily, I protest,
So much I hate a breaking cause to be
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game; A mess of Russians left us but of late.
King. How, madam? Russians ?
Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ;
Ros. Madam, speak true: -It is not so, my lord;
Biron. This jest is dry to me.-Fair, gentle, sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish : when we greet With eyes best seeing heaven's fiery eye, 550 By light we lose light: Your capacity Is of that nature, that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor. Ros. This proves you wise 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 snatch words from my tongue.
Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I possess.
560 Ros. Which of the visors was it, that you wore ? Biron. Where? when i what visor? why demand
this? Ros. There, then, that visor ; that superfluous
case, That hid the worse, and shew'd the better face. King. We are descry'd; they'll mock us now down
right. Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. Prin. Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your high
ness sad? Ros. Help, hold his brows! he'll swoon! Why look
you pale ? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. Biron. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.
570 Can any face of brass hold longer out?Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a fout; Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O! never will I trust to speeches penn'd,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue ; - Nor never come in visor to my friend ; Nor woo in shime, like a blind harper's song: