Princess

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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Rosaline
Another of these students at that time
Was there with him, if I have heard a truth.
Berowne 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

His eye begets occasion for his wit,
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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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Princess
We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
Rosaline
They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go.

Folly in fools bears not so strong a note
As fool’ry in the wise

O, that I knew he were but in by th’ week,
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Berowne, to the Princess
White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.
Princess, speaking as Rosaline
Honey, and milk, and sugar—there is three.
Berowne
Nay then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. Well run, dice!
There’s half a dozen sweets.
Princess
Seventh sweet,
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Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.
That sport best pleases that doth least know how,
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Dies in the zeal of that which it presents.
Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,
When great things laboring perish in their birth.
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King
The extreme parts of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed,
And often at his very loose decides
That which long process could not arbitrate.
And though the mourning brow of progeny
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love
The holy suit which fain it would convince,
Yet since love’s argument was first on foot,
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Berowne
Our wooing doth not end like an old play.
Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy
Might well have made our sport a comedy.
King
Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then ’twill end.
Berowne
That’s too long for a play.

Enter Braggart Armado.
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