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This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That when he plays at tables chides the dice

In honorable terms; nay, he can sing

A mean most meanly, and in hushering

Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet;

The stairs as he treads on them kiss his feet.

This is the flow’r that smiles on every one,

To show his teeth as white as whalë’s bone;

And consciences that will not die in debt

Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

King.

A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,

That put Armado’s page out of his part!

Enter the [Princess, ushered by Boyet, and her]

Ladies.

Ber.

See where it comes! Behavior, what wert thou

Till this madman show’d thee? And what art thou now?

King.

All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!

Prin.

“Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive.

King.

Conster my speeches better, if you may.

Prin.

Then wish me better, I will give you leave.

King.

We came to visit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then.

Prin.

This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow: