_Long._ You have a double tongue within your mask, 245 And would afford my speechless vizard half. _Kath._ Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not ‘veal’ a calf? _Long._ A calf, fair lady! _Kath._ No, a fair lord calf. _Long._ Let’s part the word. _Kath._ No, I’ll not be your half: Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox. 250 _Long._ Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so. _Kath._ Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. _Long._ One word in private with you, ere I die. _Kath._ Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. 255 [_They converse apart._ _Boyet._ The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor’s edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense; so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings 260 Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. _Ros._ Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. _Biron._ By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! _King._ Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. _Prin._ Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. 265 [_Exeunt King, Lords, and Blackamoors._ Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at? _Boyet._ Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff’d out. _Ros._ Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. _Prin._ O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? 270 Or ever, but in vizards, show their faces? This pert Biron was out of countenance quite. _Ros._ O, they were all in lamentable cases! The king was weeping-ripe for a good word. _Prin._ Biron did swear himself out of all suit. 275 _Mar._ Dumain was at my service, and his sword: No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute. _Kath._ Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart; And trow you what he call’d me? _Prin._ Qualm, perhaps. _Kath._ Yes, in good faith. _Prin._ Go, sickness as thou art! 280 _Ros._ Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? the king is my love sworn. _Prin._ And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me. _Kath._ And Longaville was for my service born. _Mar._ Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. 285 _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. _Prin._ Will they return? _Boyet._ They will, they will, God knows, 290 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. _Prin._ How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.