Boyet

Boyet
Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits.
Consider who 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 Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.
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Forester
Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice,
A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.
Princess
I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou speakst “the fairest shoot.”
Forester
Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
Princess
What, what? First praise me,
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The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
As is the razor’s edge invisible,
Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen;
Above the sense of sense, so sensible
Seemeth their conference. Their conceits have wings
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.
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Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud.
Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
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