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.