Boyet. She hears herself.
Ros.
195 How many weary steps,
Of many weary miles you have o’ergone,
Are number’d in the travel of one mile?
Biron. We number nothing that we spend for you:
Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
200 That we may do it still without accompt.
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,
That we, like savages, may worship it.