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Prin. Qualm, perhaps.
Rof. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:
Prin. Will they return ?
Boyet. They will, they will, God knows;
Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! what shall we do,
Ros. Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis’d,
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand.
Before the Princess's Pavilion. Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain in
their own habits; Boyet, meeting them. . AIR Sir, God save you! Where's the
Princess ? Boyet. Gone to her Tent. Please it your Majesty, command me any service to her?
word. King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one Boyet. I will; and so will fhe, I know, my lord.
[Exit. Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again, when jove doth please : He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and waffals, meetings, markets, fairs : And we that fell by grofs, 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 kist away his hand 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 mainly; 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 shew his teeth, as white as whale his 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 !
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Catharine, Boyet,
and Attendants. Biron. EE, where it comes ; behaviour, what
wert thou, 'Till this man shew'd thee? and what art thou now? King. All hail, sweet Madam, and fair time of
day! Prin. Fair in all hail is soul, as I conceive. King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. Prin. Then wish me better, I will give you leave. King. We come 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. King. Rebuke me not for That, which you pro
voke; The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nick-name virtue; vice you should have
For virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
As the unfully'd lilly, I proteft,
I would not yield to be your house's guest :
lehaviour, what wert thou, 'Till this man shewed thee? and what art thou now?] These are tivo wonderfully fine Lines, intimating that what Courts call Manners, and value themselves so much upon Teaching, as a Thing no where elle to be learnt, is a modest silent Accomplishment under the Di. re&ion of Nature and Common Sense, which does its Office in promoting social Life without being taken Norice of. But that when it degenerates into Shew and Parade it becomes an unmaniy contempcible Quality:
King. O, you have liv'd in defolation here,
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? Ruffians?
Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ;
lord : My lady (to the manner of the days) In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four, indeed, confronted were with four In Ruffian habit : here they staid an hour, 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,
Rof. 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.
wore? Biryn. Where? when? what visor? why demand
Rof. There, then, that visor, that superfluous Case, That hid the worse, and shew'd the better face. King. We are descried; they'll mock us now downright.
Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jeft.
you pale? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. Biron. Thus pour the stars down plagues for Per
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,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue;
Nor woo in rhime, like a blind harper's song.
Three pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation :
By this white glove, (how white the hand, God
In russet yeas, and honest kersy noes:
Rof. Sans, fans, I pray you.
Biron. Yet I have a trick
They are infected. in their hearts it lies;