To tread a measure with you on this grass.
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.
If to come hither you have measured miles,
And many miles, the princess bids you tell
How many inches doth fill up one mile.
Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.
She hears herself.
How many weary steps,
Of many weary miles you have o’ergone,
Are number’d in the travel of one mile?
We number nothing that we spend for you:
Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
That we may do it still without accompt.
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,
That we, like savages, may worship it.
My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!
Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,
Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne.
O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;
Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water.
Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one change.
Thou bid’st me beg: this begging is not strange.
Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon. Music plays.
Not yet! no dance! Thus change I like the moon.
Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?
You took the moon at full, but now she’s changed.
Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.
The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.
Our ears vouchsafe it.
But your legs should do it.
Since you are strangers and come here by chance,
We’ll not be nice: take hands. We will not dance.
Why take we hands, then?
Only to part friends:
Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.
More measure of this measure; be not nice.
We can afford no more at such a price.
Prize you yourselves: what buys your company?
Your absence only.
That can never be.
Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu;
Twice to your visor, and half once to you.
If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat.
In private, then.
I am best pleased with that. They converse apart.
White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.
Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.
Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so nice,
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!
There’s half-a-dozen sweets.
Seventh sweet, adieu:
Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.
One word in secret.
Let it not be sweet.
Thou grievest my gall.
Gall! bitter.
Therefore meet. They converse apart.
Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
Name it.
Fair lady—
Say you so? Fair lord—
Take that for your fair lady.
Please it you,
As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu. They converse apart.
What, was your vizard made without a tongue?
I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
O for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.
You have a double tongue within your mask,
And would afford my speechless vizard half.
Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not “veal” a calf?
A calf, fair lady!
No, a fair lord calf.
Let’s part the word.
No, I’ll not be your half:
Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox.
Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!
Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.
Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.
One word in private with you, ere I die.
Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry. They converse apart.
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
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.
Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.
By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. Exeunt King, Lords, and Blackamoors.
Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at?
Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff’d out.
Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
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 Biron was out of countenance quite.
O, they were all in lamentable cases!
The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Biron did swear himself out of all suit.
Dumain was at my service, and his sword:
No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute.
Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart;
And trow you what he call’d me?
Qualm, perhaps.
Yes, in good faith.
Go, sickness as thou art!
Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.
And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
And Longaville was for my service born.
Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.
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.
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.
How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.
Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their bud;
Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do,
If they return in their own shapes to woo?
Good madam,
