BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches. You have simple wits. [_Exeunt King, Lords and Blackamoors._] PRINCESS. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight? Or ever but in vizors show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword. “_Non point_,” quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o’er his heart; And trow you what he called me? PRINCESS. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS. 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. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. 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. PRINCESS. 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. How “blow”? How “blow”? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud. Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised, Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguised. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penned, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw. The gallants are at hand. PRINCESS. Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er the land. [_Exeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria._] Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine as themselves. 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._]