Love's Labour's Lost

KING. But your legs should do it.
ROSALINE. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance,
We'll not be nice; take hands. We will not dance.
KING. Why take we hands then?
ROSALINE. Only to part friends.
Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.
KING. More measure of this measure; be not nice.
ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price.
KING. Price you yourselves. What buys your company?
ROSALINE. Your absence only.
KING. That can never be.
ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought; and so adieu-
Twice to your visor and half once to you.
KING. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.
ROSALINE. In private then.
KING. I am best pleas'd with that. [They converse apart]
BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.
BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run dice!
There's half a dozen sweets.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Seventh sweet, adieu!
Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.
BEROWNE. One word in secret.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Let it not be sweet.
BEROWNE. Thou grievest my gall.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Gall! bitter.
BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [They converse apart]
DUMAIN. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
MARIA. Name it.
DUMAIN. Fair lady-
MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord-
Take that for your fair lady.
DUMAIN. Please it you,
As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.
[They converse apart]
KATHARINE. What, was your vizard made without a tongue?
LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
KATHARINE. O for your reason! Quickly, sir; I long.
LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask,
And would afford my speechless vizard half.
KATHARINE. 'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf?
LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady!
KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf.
LONGAVILLE. Let's part the word.
KATHARINE. No, I'll not be your half.
Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox.
LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!
Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so.
KATHARINE. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.
LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die.
KATHARINE. 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.
ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.
BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
KING. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.
Exeunt KING, LORDS, and BLACKAMOORS
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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.
ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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.
ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases!
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.
MARIA. Dumain was at my service, and his sword.
'No point' quoth I; my servant straight was mute.
KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o'er his heart;
And trow you what he call'd me?
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Qualm, perhaps.
KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to
me.
KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born.
MARIA. Dumain 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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.