Moth. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes, -with your sun-beamed eyes.' Boy. 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. Bir. Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue. Ros. What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet: If they do speak our language, 'tis our will Boy. What would you with the princess? Boy. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. gone. Boy. She says, you have it, and you may be gone. King. Say to her, we have measured many miles, To tread a measure 1 with her on this grass. 1 Boy. They say, that they have measured many a mile, To tread a measure with you on this grass. Ros. It is not so: ask them, how many inches Is in one mile: if they have measured many, 1 A slow and solemn dance. The measure then of one is easily told. Boy. If, to come hither you have measured miles, And many miles; the princess bids you tell, How many inches do fill up one mile. Bir. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. Boy. She hears herself. Ros. How many weary steps, Of many weary miles you have o’ergone, Are number'd in the travel of one mile ? Bir. We number nothing that we spend for you : Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without account. That we, like savages, may worship it. 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 removed) upon our watery eyne. Ros. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter: Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water. King. Then, in our measure vouchsafe but 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 estranged? Ros. You took the moon at full; but now she's changed. King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it, Ros. Our ears vouchsafe it. King. But your legs should do 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 :— Courtesy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends. King. More measure of this measure; be not nice. Ros. We can afford no more at such a price. King. Prize you yourselves. What buys your company? Ros. Your absence only. King. That can never be. Ros. Then cannot we be bought; and so adieu; Twice to your visor, and half once to you! King. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat. Ros. In private then. King. I am best pleased with that. Bir. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. Bir. Nay then, two treys, (an if you grow so nice) Metheglin, wort, and malmsey.-Well run, dice! Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu! Since you can cog,1 I'll play no more with you. Bir. One word in secret. Dum. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a As much in private, and I'll bid adieu. [they converse apart. Kath. What, was your visor made without a tongue? Lon. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. Kath. O, for your reason! quickly, sir; I long. Lon. 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? Lon. A calf, fair lady? Kath. No, a fair lord calf. Lon. Let's part the word. 1 Deceive, lie. Kath. No, I'll not be your half: Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox. Lon. Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so. Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. Lon. One word in private with you, ere I die. Kath. Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you [they converse apart. cry. Boy. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; 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. Bir. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! King. Farewell, mad wenches: you have simple wits. [Exeunt King, Lords, Moth, Music, and Attendants. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.— Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at? Boy. 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! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? Or ever, but in visors, show their faces? |