BOYET.
Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits,
Consider, whom the king your father sends,
To whom he sends, and what's his embassy,
Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,
To parley with the sole inheritor

Of all perfections that a man may owe.
Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
Than Aquitain, a dowry for a queen.
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace,
As nature was in making graces dear,
When she did starve the general world beside,
And prodigally gave them all to you.

PRINCESS.
Good, lord Boyet, my beauty, tho' but mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:
Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,
Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues;
I am less proud to hear you tell my worth,
Than you much willing to be counted wise,
In spending thus your wit in praise of mine.
But now, to task the tasker; good Boyet,
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
Doth noise abroad, Navarre had made a vow,
Till painful study shall outwear three years,
No woman may approach his silent court.
Therefore to us it seems a needful course,
Before we enter his forbidden gates,
To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,
Bold of your worthiness, we single you
As our best moving fair sollicitor.
Tell him, the daughter of the king of France,
On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
Importunes personal conference with his grace.
Haste, signify so much, while we attend,
Like humble visag'd suitors, his high will.

BOYET.
Proud of th' employment, willingly I go. [Exit.

PRINCESS.
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous king?

LORD.
Longaville is one.

PRINCESS.
Know you the man?

MARIA.
I knew him, madam, at a marriage feast
Between lord Perigort, and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Faulconbridge, solemnised.
In Normandy, I saw this Longaville;
A man of sovereign parts he is esteemed,
Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms,
Nothing becomes ill, that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss
(If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil)
Is a sharp wit, match'd with too blunt a will,
Whose edge hath power to cut.

PRINCESS.
Some merry-mocking lord, belike; is't so?

MARIA.
They say so most, who know his humours best.

PRINCESS.
Such short-liv'd wits, do wither as they grow.
Who are the rest?

CATHERINE.
The young Dumain, a well accomplish'd youth
Of all that virtue love, for virtue lov'd.
Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill;
For he has wit to make an ill shape good;
And shape to win grace, tho' he had no wit.
I saw him at the duke Alanson's once,
And much too little of that good I saw
Is my report to his great worthiness.

ROSALINE.
Another of these Students at this time
Was there with him, as I have heard a truth;

Biron they call him; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour's talk withal.
His eye begets occasion for his wit,
For every object, that the one doth catch,
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest;
Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor)
Delivers in such apt and gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished;
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

PRINCESS.
God bless my ladies! are they all in love,
That every one her own hath garnished
With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

ROSALINE.
Madam, you know, we safely may commend
The virtues of these book-devoted lords;
We are but vulgar beauties in their eyes,
Contemn'd, despis'd for sweet philosophy.
Sure, ladies, there is something great in knowledge,
That men of such rare faculties should choose
A life so dull, and so unsociable.

CATHERINE.
Suppose, we practise all our little arts,
To rouse them from this legarthy.

ROSALINE.
Well said; as thus, we'll teach our eyes to glance,
Our tongues to rail; sometimes a sudden blush
Shall damask o'er our cheeks, as if surprised
We had been caught with gazing at them:
Then we'll be coy, and difficult of speech,
Then free, and affable, to commend their studies;
'Till we perceive, we've touch'd their gentle hearts,
And then—I need not tell the rest.

PRINCESS.
You are well practis'd in the school of love,
Fair Rosaline!

ROSALINE.
In nothing practis'd, but what nature learns,
No woman e'er was foolish in that art;
We only differ in external forms.

PRINCESS.
Well, Rosaline, you may try your skill;
By this time Boyet is return'd, we'll go
To learn his conference, and our fate to know. End of the First ACT.

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