your reason! quickly, sir, I long!
Long.
You have a double tongue within your mask,
And would afford my speechless vizard half.
[Kath.]
“Veal,” quoth the Dutchman. Is not veal a calf?
Long.
A calf, fair lady!
[Kath.]
No, a fair lord calf.
Long.
Let’s part the word.
[Kath.]
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!
Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so.
[Kath.]
Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.
Long.
One word in private with you ere I die.
[Kath.]
Bleat softly then, the butcher hears you cry.
[They converse 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.
Ros.
Not one word more, my maids, break off, break off.
Ber.
By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
King.
Farewell, mad wenches, you have simple wits.
Exeunt [King, Lords, and Blackmoors].
Prin.
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.
Are these the breed of wits so wondered 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 vizards show their faces?
This pert Berowne was out of count’nance quite.
Ros.
They were all in lamentable cases!
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Prin.
Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.
Mar.
Dumaine 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.
Qualm, perhaps.
Kath.
Yes, in good faith.
Prin.
Go, sickness as thou art!
Ros.
Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
But will you hear? the King is my love sworn.
Prin.
And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me.
Kath.
And Longaville was for my service born.
Mar.
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.
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.
