KATHARINE.
Two hot sheeps, marry!
BOYET.
And wherefore not ships?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.
KATHARINE.
You sheep and I pasture. Shall that finish the jest?
BOYET.
So you grant pasture for me.
[He tries to kiss her.]
KATHARINE.
Not so, gentle beast.
My lips are no common, though several they be.
BOYET.
Belonging to whom?
KATHARINE.
To my fortunes and me.
PRINCESS.
Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree.
This civil war of wits were much better used
On Navarre and his bookmen, 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.