MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me. I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAINE. You may not deny it. Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for ’t? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he wears next his heart for a favour. Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé. MARCADÉ. God save you, madam. PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcadé, But that thou interruptest our merriment. MARCADÉ. I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father— PRINCESS. Dead, for my life! MARCADÉ. Even so. My tale is told. BEROWNE. Worthies away! The scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [_Exeunt Worthies._] KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS. Boyet, prepare. I will away tonight. KING. Madam, not so. I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed, And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow jostle it From what it purposed; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS. I understand you not. My griefs are double.