Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.
[Exeunt KING, LORDS, Music, and Attendants.]
Are these the breed of wits so wondered at?
Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out.
Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?
Or ever, but in vizors, show their faces?
This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.
O! They were all in lamentable cases!
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.
Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:
'No point' quoth I; my servant straight was mute.
Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart;
And trow you what he call'd me?
Yes, in good faith.
Go, sickness as thou art!
Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
But will you hear? The king is my love sworn.
And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me.
And Longaville was for my service born.
Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree.
Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:
Immediately they will again be here
In their own shapes; for it can never be
They will digest this harsh indignity.
Will they return?
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.
How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood.
Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud:
Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do
If they return in their own shapes to woo?
Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,
Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd.
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd,
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our tent to us.
Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.
Whip to our tents, as roes run over land.
[Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA.]
[Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE
in their proper habits.]
Fair sir, God save you! Where's the princess?
Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty
Command me any service to her thither?
That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,
And utters it again when God doth please:
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassails, 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 his hand away in courtesy;
This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms; nay, he can sing
A mean most meanly; and in ushering
Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.
This is the flower that smiles on every one,
To show his teeth as white as whales-bone;
And consciences that will not die in debt
Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.
A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,
That put Armado's page out of his part!
[Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE,
MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants.]