_Ros._ Pray you, do my commendations; I would be 180 glad to see it. _Biron._ I would you heard it groan. _Ros._ Is the fool sick? _Biron._ Sick at the heart. _Ros._ Alack, let it blood. 185 _Biron._ Would that do it good? _Ros._ My physic says ‘ay’. _Biron._ Will you prick’t with your eye? _Ros._ No point, with my knife. _Biron._ Now, God save thy life! 190 _Ros._ And yours from long living! _Biron._ I cannot stay thanksgiving. [_Retiring._ _Dum._ Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? _Boyet._ The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name. _Dum._ A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. [_Exit._ 195 _Long._ I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? _Boyet._ A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. _Long._ Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. _Boyet._ She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. _Long._ Pray you, sir, whose daughter? 200 _Boyet._ Her mother’s, I have heard. _Long._ God’s blessing on your beard! _Boyet._ Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. _Long._ Nay, my choler is ended. 205 She is a most sweet lady. _Boyet._ Not unlike, sir, that may be. [_Exit Long._ _Biron._ What’s her name in the cap? _Boyet._ Rosaline, by good hap. _Biron._ Is she wedded or no? 210 _Boyet._ To her will, sir, or so. _Biron._ You are welcome, sir: adieu. _Boyet._ Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [_Exit Biron._ _Mar._ That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord: Not a word with him but a jest. _Boyet._ And every jest but a word. 215 _Prin._ It was well done of you to take him at his word. _Boyet._ I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. _Mar._ Two hot sheeps, marry. _Boyet._ And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. _Mar._ You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest? 220 _Boyet._ So you grant pasture for me. [_Offering to kiss her._ _Mar._ Not so, gentle beast: My lips are no common, though several they be. _Boyet._ Belonging to whom? _Mar._ To my fortunes and me. _Prin._ Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree: This civil war of wits were much better used 225 On Navarre and his book-men; for here ’tis abused. _Boyet._ If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. _Prin._ With what? 230 _Boyet._ With that which we lovers entitle affected. _Prin._ Your reason?