Metheglin, wort, and malmsey;-Well run, dice. There's half a dozen sweets.

That some plain man recount their purposes:
Know what they would.

Boyet. What would you with the princess?
Biron. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.
Ros. What would they, say they?

Boyet. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation. Ros. Why, that they have; and bid them so begone. Boyet. She says, you have it, and you may be gone. King. Say to her, we have measur'd many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass.

Boyet. They say that they have measur'd 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 measur'd many, The measure then of one is easily told.

Boyet. If to come hither you have measur'd miles,
And many miles; the princess bids you tell,
How many inches do fill up one mile.

Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.
Boyet. 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?
Biron. We number nothing that we spend for

you;

Our duty is so rich, so infinite,

That we may do it still without accompt.
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,
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 remov'd) upon our wat'ry eyne.

Ros. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water. King. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe

one change;

Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange. Ros. Play, music, then: nay, you must do it [Music plays.

soon.

Not yet;-no dance:--thus change I like the moon. King. Will you not dance? How come you thus estrang'd?

Ros. You took the moon at full; but now she's chang'd.

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:Court'sy, 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 pleas'd with that. [They converse apart. Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word

with thee.

Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. Biron. Nay then, two treys, (an if you grow so nice,)

Say you so? Fair lord,Please it you,

Take that for your fair lady.
Dum.

As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.

[They converse apart. Kath. What, was your visor made without a tongue?

Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
Kath. O, for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.
Long. 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?
Long. A calf, fair lady?
Kath.

Long. Let's part the word.
Kath.

No, a fair lord calf.

No, I'll not be your half. Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox. Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these

sharp mocks!

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.

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

Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff? King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. [Exeunt KING, Lords, MoTB, Music, and Attendants. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd 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! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? Or ever, but in visors, show their faces! This pert Birón was out of countenance quite.

Ros. O! they were all in lamentable cases! The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Prin. Birón 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?

Prin.

Kath. Yes, in good faith. Prin.

Go, sickness as thou art! Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statutecaps.*

But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.
Prin. And quick Birón hath plighted faith to me.
Kath. And Longaville was for my service born.
Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.
Boyet. 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.
Prin. Will they return?
Boyet. They will, they will, God knows;
And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows:
Therefore, change favors; and when they repair,
Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.

Prin. How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.

Boyet. Fair ladies, mask'd, are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, 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, 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. Boyet. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land. [Exeunt PRINCESS, Ros., KATH., and MARIA. Enter the KING, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DuMAIN, in their proper habits.

King. Fair sir, God save you! Where is the princess?

Boyet. Gone to her tent: Please it your majesty, Command me any service to her thither?

King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
[Exit.
Biron. This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas;
And utters it again when God doth please:
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
In honorable 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.

King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,

That put Armado's page out of his part!

Better wits may be found among citizens.
Features, countenances. Rustic merry-meetings.
The tenor in music. The tooth of the horse-whale.

Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men. 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 spoke;

For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now by my maiden honor, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest,

A world of torments though I should endure,

I would not yield to be your house's guest: So much I hate a breaking-cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity. King. O, you have liv'd in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. Prin. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; 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; Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state. Ros. Madam, speak true:-It is not so, my lord; My lady, (to the manner of the days,") In courtesy, gives undeserving praise. In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour. We four, indeed, confronted here with four And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. 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, 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

mand you this?

Ros. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case, That hid the worse, and show'd the better face. King. We are descried: they'll mock us now downright.

Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. Prin. Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your highness 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.

After the fashion of the times.

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
flout;

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 rhyme, like a blind harper's song: Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,

Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical; these summer-flies

Have blown me full of maggot ostentation: I do forswear them: and I here protest,

By this white glove, (how white the hand,
God knows!)

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd
In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes:
And, to begin, wench,-so God help me, la!—
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Ros. Sans SANS, I pray you.
Biron.
Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage:-bear with me, I am sick;
I'll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see;—
Write, Lord have mercy on us, on those three;
They are infected, in their hearts it lies;
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:
These lords are visited; you are not free,
For the Lord's tokens on you do I see.

Prin. No, they are free, that gave these tokens to us.
Biron. Our states are forfeit, seek not to undo us.
Ros. It is not so: For how can this be true,
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?
Biron. Peace; for I will not have to do with you.
Ros Ner shall not, if I do as I intend.
Biron. Speak for yourselves, my wit is at an end.
King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude
transgression

Some fair excuse.

Prin. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

1

King. Upon mine honor, no. Prin. Peace, peace, forbear; Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. King. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. Prin. I will; and therefore keep it:-Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear?

Ros. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eye-sight; and did value me Above this world: adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me or else die my lover. Prin. God give thee joy of him! the noble lord Most honorably doth uphold his word.

King. What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,

I never swore this lady such an oath.

Ros. By heaven, you did; and to confirm it plain

You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

King. My faith, and this, the princess I did give; I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. 1 Make no difficulty.

Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear, And lord Birón, I thank him, is my dear :What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

Biron. Neither of either; I remit both twain.-
I see the trick on't;-Here was a consent,'
(Knowing aforehand of our merriment,)
To dash it like a Christmas comedy:
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some
Dick,-

That smiles his cheek in years; and knows the trick
To make my lady laugh, when she's dispos'd,—
Told our intents before: which once disclos'd,
The ladies did change favors; and then we,
Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn; in will, and error.
Much upon this it is:-And might not you,

[TO BOYET.

Cost.

No, sir; but it is vara fine,

For every one pursents three.,
Biron.
And three times thrice is nine.
Cost. Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope,
it is not so;

You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know.

I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,—

Biron. Is not nine! Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. Cost. O, Lord, sir, it were a pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.

Biron. How much is it?

Cost. O, Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for my own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man,-e'en one poor man; Pompion the great,