Act 2 - Scene 1
Enter the PRINCESS of France, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, and other Attendants
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
Of all perfections that a man may owe,
Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
a dowry for a queen.
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
As Nature was in making graces dear
she did starve the general world beside
And prodigally gave them all to you.
Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:
is bought by judgement 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 your wit in the praise of
But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
Doth noise abroad,
Navarre hath made a vow,
Till painful study shall outwear three years,
No woman may approach his silent
Therefore to's seemeth it 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 solicitor.
Tell him, the daughter
of the King of France,
On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
Importunes personal conference with
Haste, signify so much; while we attend,
Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will.
Proud of employment, willingly I go.
All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?
Lord Longaville is one.
Know you the man?
I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast,
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Falconbridge,
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville:
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd;
Well fitted in
arts, glorious in arms:
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,
virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,
Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;
Whose edge hath power
to cut, whose will still wills
It should none spare that come within his power.
Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?
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