LONGUEVILLE
A calf, fair lady?
CATHERINE No, a fair lord calf.
LONGUEVILLE
Let’s part the word.
CATHERINE No, I’ll not be your half.
Take all and wean it, it may prove an ox.
LONGUEVILLE
Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks !
Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so.
CATHERINE
Then die a calf before your horns do grow.
LONGUEVILLE
One word in private with you ere I die.
CATHERINE
Bleat softly, then. The butcher hears you cry.
Longueville and Catherine talk 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.
BIRON
By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
KING
Farewell, mad wenches, you have simple wits.
Exeunt the King, lords, and blackamoors
⌈The ladies unmask⌉
PRINCESS
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.
Are these the breed of wits so wondered at?
BOYET
Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out.
ROSALINE
Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
PRINCESS
O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout !
Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight,
Or ever but in visors show their faces?
This pert Biron was out of count’nance quite.
ROSALINE
Ah, they were all in lamentable cases.
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.
PRINCESS
Biron did swear himself out of all suit.
MARIA
Dumaine was at my service, and his sword.
‘Non point,’ quoth I. My servant straight was mute.
CATHERINE
Lord Longueville said I came o’er his heart,
And trow you what he called me?
PRINCESS
‘Qualm’, perhaps.
CATHERINE
Yes, in good faith.
PRINCESS
Go, sickness as thou art.
ROSALINE
Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
But will you hear? The King is my love sworn.
PRINCESS
And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
CATHERINE
And Longueville was for my service born.
MARIA
Dumaine 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.
PRINCESS
Will they return?
BOYET 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.
PRINCESS
How ‘blow’ ? How ‘blow’ ? Speak to be understood.
BOYET
Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud;
Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
PRINCESS
Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do
If they return in their own shapes to woo?
ROSALINE
Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised,
Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguised.
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear,
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their shallow shows, and prologue vilely penned,
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our tent to us.
BOYET
Ladies, withdraw. The gallants are at hand.
PRINCESS
Whip, to our tents, as roes run over land!
Exeunt the ladies
Enter the King, Biron, Dumaine, and Longueville, as themselves
KING
Fair sir, God save you. Where’s 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 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.
A can carve too, and lisp, why, this is he
That kissed 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 everyone
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!
Enter the ladies and Boyet
BIRON
See where it comes. Behaviour, what wert thou
Till this madman showed thee, and what art thou
now ?
KING
All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!
PRINCESS
‘Fair’ in ‘all hail’ is foul, as I conceive.
KING
Construe my speeches better, if you may.
PRINCESS
Then wish me better. I will give you leave.
KING
We came to visit you, and purpose now
To lead you to our court. Vouchsafe it, then.
PRINCESS
This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow.
Nor God nor I delights in perjured men.
KING
Rebuke me not for that which you provoke.
The virtue of your eye must break my oath.
PRINCESS
You nickname virtue. ‘Vice’ you should have spoke,
For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.