310 King. Fair sir, God save you! Where’s the princess?
Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty
[312] Command me any service to her thither?
King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit.
[315] Biron. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,
[316] And utters it again when God doth please:
He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares
At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,