BOYET.
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.
ROSALINE.
Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.
BEROWNE.
By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
KING.
Farewell, mad wenches. You have simple wits.
[Exeunt King, Lords and Blackamoors.]
PRINCESS.
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.
Are these the breed of wits so wondered at?
BOYET.
Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out.
ROSALINE.
Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.
PRINCESS.
O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!
Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight?
Or ever but in vizors show their faces?
This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.
ROSALINE.
They were all in lamentable cases.
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.