Love's Labour's Lost By William Shakespeare Act V: Scene 2

KING.
Why take we hands then?

ROSALINE.
Only to part friends.
Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

KING.
More measure of this measure: be not nice.

ROSALINE.
We can afford no more at such a price.

KING.
Price you yourselves? what buys your company?

ROSALINE.
Your absence only.

KING.
That can never be.

ROSALINE.
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.

ROSALINE.
In private then.

KING.
I am best pleas'd with that.

[They converse apart.]

BEROWNE.
White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

PRINCESS.
Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.

BEROWNE.
Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!
There's half a dozen sweets.

PRINCESS.
Seventh sweet, adieu:
Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.

BEROWNE.
One word in secret.

PRINCESS.
Let it not be sweet.

BEROWNE.
Thou griev'st my gall.

PRINCESS.
Gall! bitter.

BEROWNE.
Therefore meet.

[They converse apart.]

DUMAINE.
Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

MARIA.
Name it.

DUMAINE.
Fair lady, —

MARIA.
Say you so? Fair lord,
Take that for your fair lady.

DUMAINE.
Please it you,
As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.

[They converse apart.]

KATHARINE.
What, was your visord made without a tongue?

LONGAVILLE.
I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

KATHARINE.
O! for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.

LONGAVILLE.
You have a double tongue within your mask,
And would afford my speechless visor half.

KATHARINE.
'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf?

LONGAVILLE.
A calf, fair lady!

KATHARINE.
No, a fair lord calf.

LONGAVILLE.
Let's part the word.

KATHARINE.
No, I'll not be your half.
Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox.

LONGAVILLE.
Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!
Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

KATHARINE.
Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

LONGAVILLE.
One word in private with you ere I die.

KATHARINE.
Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry.

[They converse 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.

ROSALINE.
Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.

BEROWNE.
By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!

KING.
Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.

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