Array The griffin classics - William Shakespeare - Complete Collection

Prin.

Honey, and milk, and sugar: there is three.

Ber.

Nay then two treys, and if you grow so nice,

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run, dice!

There’s half a dozen sweets.

Prin.

Seventh sweet, adieu.

Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.

Ber.

One word in secret.

Prin.

Let it not be sweet.

Ber.

Thou grievest my gall.

Prin.

Gall! bitter.

Ber.

Therefore meet.

[They converse apart.]

Dum.

Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

Mar.

Name it.

Dum.

Fair lady—

Mar.

Say you so? Fair lord—

Take that for your fair lady.

Dum.

Please it you,

As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.

[They converse apart.]

[Kath.]

What, was your vizard made without a tongue?

Long.

I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

[Kath.]

O for 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.

Boyet.

Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their bud;

Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,

Are angels [vailing] clouds, or roses blown.

Prin.

Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do,

If they return in their own shapes to woo?

Ros.

Good madam, if by me you’ll be advis’d,

Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguis’d.

Let us complain to them what fools were here,

Disguis’d like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;

And wonder what they were, and to what end

Their shallow shows and prologue vildly penn’d,

And their rough carriage so ridiculous,

Should be presented at our tent to us.

Boyet.

Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand.

Prin.

Whip to our tents, as roes [run] o’er land.

Exeunt [Princess and Ladies].

Enter the King and the rest [of the Lords in their proper habits].

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.

Ber.

This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,

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 kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That when he plays at tables chides the dice

In honorable terms; nay, he can sing

A mean most meanly, and in hushering

Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet;

The stairs as he treads on them kiss his feet.

This is the flow’r that smiles on every one,

To show his teeth as white as whalë’s 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, ushered by Boyet, and her]

Ladies.

Ber.

See where it comes! Behavior, what wert thou

Till this madman show’d thee? And what art thou now?

King.

All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!

Prin.

“Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive.

King.

Conster my speeches better, if you may.

Prin.

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.

Prin.

This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men.

King.

Rebuke me not for that which you provoke:

The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

Prin.

You nickname virtue; vice you should have spoke,

For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.