King.
Fair Sir, God save you. Where's the Princess?

Boyet.
Gone to her tent.
Please it your Majesty command me any service to her?

King.
That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet.
I will, and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit.

Biron.
This fellow picks up wit as pigeons peas,
And utters it again, when Jove doth please:
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes and wassals, meetings, markets, fairs:
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;
Had he been Adam he had tempted Eve.
He can carve too, and lisp: why this is he,
That kist away his hand in courtesie.
This is the ape of ^{d note}form, Monsieur the nice,
That when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay he can sing
A mean most ^{e note}mainly, and in ushering
Mend him who can; the ladies call him sweet;
The stairs as he treads on them kiss his feet.
This is the flower that smiles on every one,
To shew his teeth as white as whale his bone.

And consciences that will not die in debt,
Pay him the ^{f note}due of honey-tongu'd Boyet.

King.
A blister on his sweet tongue with my heart,
That put Armado's page out of his part.

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