Dum. Faire Ladie: Mar. Say you so? Faire Lord: Take you that for your faire Lady Du. Please it you, As much in priuate, and Ile bid adieu Mar. What, was your vizard made without a tong? Long. I know the reason Ladie why you aske Mar. O for your reason, quickly sir, I long Long. You haue a double tongue within your mask, And would affoord my speechlesse vizard halfe Mar. Veale quoth the Dutch-man: is not Veale a Calfe? Long. A Calfe faire Ladie? Mar. No, a faire Lord Calfe Long. Let's part the word Mar. No, Ile not be your halfe: Take all and weane it, it may proue an Oxe Long. Looke how you but your selfe in these sharpe mockes. Will you giue hornes chast Ladie? Do not so Mar. Then die a Calfe before your horns do grow Lon. One word in priuate with you ere I die Mar. Bleat softly then, the Butcher heares you cry Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the Razors edge, inuisible: Cutting a smaller haire then may be seene, Aboue the sense of sence so sensible: Seemeth their conference, their conceits haue wings, Fleeter then arrows, bullets wind, thoght, swifter things Rosa. Not one word more my maides, breake off, breake off Ber. By heauen, all drie beaten with pure scoffe King. Farewell madde Wenches, you haue simple wits. Exeunt. Qu. Twentie adieus my frozen Muscouits. Are these the breed of wits so wondred at? Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweete breathes puft out Rosa. Wel-liking wits they haue, grosse, grosse, fat, fat Qu. O pouertie in wit, Kingly poore flout. Will they not (thinke you) hang themselues to night? Or euer but in vizards shew their faces: This pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite Rosa. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping ripe for a good word Qu. Berowne did sweare himselfe out of all suite Mar. Dumaine was at my seruice, and his sword: No point (quoth I:) my seruant straight was mute Ka. Lord Longauill said I came ore his hart: And trow you what he call'd me? Qu. Qualme perhaps Kat. Yes in good faith Qu. Go sicknesse as thou art Ros. Well, better wits haue worne plain statute caps, But will you heare; the King is my loue sworne Qu. And quicke Berowne hath plighted faith to me Kat. And Longauill was for my seruice borne Mar. Dumaine is mine as sure as barke on tree Boyet. Madam, and prettie mistresses giue eare, Immediately they will againe be heere In their owne shapes: for it can neuer be, They will digest this harsh indignitie Qu. Will they returne? Boy. They will they will, God knowes, And leape for ioy, though they are lame with blowes: Therefore change Fauours, and when they repaire, Blow like sweet Roses, in this summer aire Qu. How blow? how blow? Speake to bee vnderstood Boy. Faire Ladies maskt, are Roses in their bud: Dismaskt, their damaske sweet commixture showne, Are Angels vailing clouds, or Roses blowne