_Prin._ No, to the death, we will not move a foot: Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace; But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face. _Boyet._ Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. 150 _Prin._ Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown; To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own: So shall we stay, mocking intended game, 155 And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame. [_Trumpets sound within._ _Boyet._ The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the maskers come. [_The Ladies mask._ _Enter Blackamoors with music_; MOTH; _the_ King, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, _and_ DUMAIN, _in Russian habits, and masked_. _Moth._ All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!— _Boyet._ Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. _Moth._ A holy parcel of the fairest dames 160 [_The Ladies turn their backs to him._ That ever turn’d their—backs—to mortal views! _Biron._ [_Aside to Moth_] Their eyes, villain, their eyes. _Moth._ That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views!— Out— _Boyet._ True; out indeed. _Moth._ Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe 165 Not to behold— _Biron._ [_Aside to Moth_] Once to behold, rogue. _Moth._ Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes, —with your sun-beamed eyes— _Boyet._ They will not answer to that epithet; 170 You were best call it ‘daughter-beamed eyes.’ _Moth._ They do not mark me, and that brings me out. _Biron._ Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue! [_Exit Moth._ _Ros._ What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet: If they do speak our language, ’tis our will 175 That some plain man recount their purposes: Know what they would. _Boyet._ What would you with the princess? _Biron._ Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. _Ros._ What would they, say they? 180 _Boyet._ Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. _Ros._ Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone. _Boyet._ She says, you have it, and you may be gone. _King._ Say to her, we have measured many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. 185 _Boyet._ They say, that they have measured many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. _Ros._ It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile: if they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told. 190 _Boyet._ If to come hither you have measured miles, And many miles, the princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. _Biron._ Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. _Boyet._ She hears herself. _Ros._ How many weary steps, 195 Of many weary miles you have o’ergone, Are number’d in the travel of one mile?