Prin.
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.
Are these the Breed of wits so wondred at?

Boyet.
Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puft out.

Ros.
Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

Prin.
O poverty in wit—kingly?—poor flout!
Will they not (think you) hang themselves to night?
  Or ever, but in vizors, shew their faces?
This pert Biron was out of count'nance quite.

Ros.
O! they were all in lamentable cases.
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Prin.
Biron did swear himself out of all suit.

Mar.
Dumain was at my service, and his sword:
No, point, quoth I; my servant strait was mute.

Cath.
Lord Longueville said, I came o'er his heart;
And, trow you, what he call'd me?

Prin.
Qualm, perhaps.

Cath.
Yes, in good faith.

Prin.
Go, sickness as thou art!

Ros.
Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.^{3 note}

But will you hear? the King is my love sworn.

Prin.
And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.

Cath.
And Longueville was for my service born.

Mar.
Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

Boyet.
Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:
Immediately they will again be here
In their own shapes; for it can never be,
They will digest this harsh indignity.

Prin.
Will they return?

Boyet.
They will, they will, God knows;
And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows:
Therefore, change Favours, and, when they repair,
Blow, like sweet roses, in this summer air.

Prin.
How, blow? how, blow? speak to be understood.

Boyet.
^{4 note}

Dismaskt, their damask sweet Commixture shewn,
Are angels vailing clouds: or roses blown.

Prin.
Avaunt, perplexity; what shall we do,
If they return in their own shapes to woo?

Ros.
Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,
Let's mock them still, as well known, as disguis'd;
Let us complain to them what fools were here,
Disguis'd, like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;^{5 note}
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their shallow Shows, and Prologue vilely penn'd,
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our Tent to us.

Boyet.
Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand.

Prin.
Whip to our Tents, as roes run o'er the land. [Exeunt.* ^note

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