[257] As is the razor’s edge invisible,
Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen;
[259] Above the sense of sense; so sensible
260 Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings
[261] Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.
Ros. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.
[263] Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
[264] King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.
[265] Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. [Exeunt King, Lords, and Blackamoors.
Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at?