PRINCESS.
All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.
[Exit Boyet.]
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous Duke?
LORD.
Lord Longaville is one.
PRINCESS.
Know you the man?
MARIA.
I know him, madam. At a marriage feast
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.
A man of sovereign parts, he is esteemed,
Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms.
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss,
If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil,
Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will,
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
It should none spare that come within his power.
PRINCESS.
Some merry mocking lord, belike. Is’t so?
MARIA.
They say so most that most his humours know.
PRINCESS.
Such short-lived wits do wither as they grow.
Who are the rest?
KATHARINE.
The young Dumaine, a well-accomplished youth,
Of all that virtue love for virtue loved;
Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,
For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,
And shape to win grace though he had no wit.
I saw him at the Duke Alençon’s once;
And much too little of that good I saw
Is my report to his great worthiness.