_King._ Rebuke me not for that which you provoke: The virtue of your eye must break my oath. _Prin._ You nickname virtue; vice you should have spoke; For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. 350 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 355 Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity. _King._ O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. _Prin._ Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; We have had pastimes here and pleasant game: 360 A mess of Russians left us but of late. _King._ How, madam! Russians! _Prin._ Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. _Ros._ Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord: My lady, to the manner of the days, 365 In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour, And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. 370 I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. _Biron._ This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet, With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, 375 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. _Ros._ This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,— _Biron._ I am a fool, and full of poverty. 380 _Ros._ But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. _Biron._ O, I am yours, and all that I possess! _Ros._ All the fool mine? _Biron._ I cannot give you less. _Ros._ Which of the vizards was it that you wore? 385 _Biron._ Where? when? what vizard? why demand you this? _Ros._ There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case That hid the worse, and show’d the better face. _King._ We are descried; they’ll mock us now downright. _Dum._ Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. 390 _Prin._ Amazed, my lord? why looks your highness sad? _Ros._ Help, hold his brows! he’ll swound! Why look you pale? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.