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. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land. Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in their proper habits