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.
We four indeed confronted were with four
In Russian habit; here they stay’d 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.
Ber.
This jest is dry to me. Gentle sweet,
Your wits 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 eye—
Ber.
I am a fool, and full of poverty.
Ros.
But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.
Ber.
O, I am yours, and all that I possess!
Ros.
All the fool mine?
Ber.
I cannot give you less.
Ros.
Which of the vizards was it that you wore?
Ber.
Where? when? what vizard? why demand you this?
Ros.
There then, that vizard, that superfluous case,
That hid the worse, and show’d the better face.
King [Aside.]
We were descried, they’ll mock us now downright.
Dum. [Aside.]
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 sound! Why look you pale?
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.
Ber.
Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.
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 schoolboy’s tongue,
Nor never come in vizard to my friend,
Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s song!
Taffata phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-pil’d hyperboles, spruce affection,
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 law!
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Ros.
Sans ‘sans,’ I pray you.
Ber.
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
