BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas 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. He can carve too, and lisp. Why, this is he That kissed his hand away in courtesy. This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms. Nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet. The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on everyone, To show his teeth as white as whale’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, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine with Boyet. BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man showed thee, and what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day. PRINCESS. “Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS. 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. PRINCESS. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow. Nor God nor I delights in perjured men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS. You nickname virtue: “vice” you should have spoke; For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house’s guest, So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS. 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? PRINCESS. Ay, in truth, my lord. Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. 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 stayed an hour And talked 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. BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. My gentle sweet, Your wit 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.