With visages display’d, to talk and greet.
Ros.
But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t?
Prin.
No, to the death we will not move a foot,
Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace,
But while ’tis spoke each turn away [her] face.
Boyet.
Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart,
And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Prin.
Therefore I do it, and I make no doubt
The rest will [ne’er] come in, if he be out.
There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown,
To make theirs ours and ours none but our own;
So shall we stay, mocking intended game,
And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.
Sound trumpet [within].
Boyet.
The trumpet sounds, be mask’d; the maskers come.
[The Ladies mask.]
Enter Blackmoors with music, the Boy [Moth] with a speech, [the King] and the rest of the Lords disguised [as Russians].
Moth.
“All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!”—
[Boyet.]
Beauties no richer than rich taffata.
Moth.
“A holy parcel of the fairest dames
The Ladies turn their backs to him.
That ever turn’d their—backs—to mortal views!”
Ber.
Their ‘eyes,’ villain, their ‘eyes.’
Moth.
“That [ever] turn’d their eyes to mortal views!
Out”—
Boyet.
True, out indeed.
Moth.
“Out of your favors, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe
Not to behold”—
Ber.
“Once to behold,” rogue.
Moth.
“Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,
– with your sun-beamed eyes”—
Boyet.
They will not answer to that epithet;
You were best call it ‘daughter-beamed eyes.’
Moth.
They do not mark me, and that brings me out.
Ber.
Is this your perfectness? Be gone, you rogue!
[Exit Moth.]
Ros.
What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet.
If they do speak our language, ’tis our will
That some plain man recount their purposes.
Know what they would.
Boyet.
What would you with the Princess?
Ber.
Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation.
Ros.
What would they, say they?
Boyet.
Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation.
Ros.
Why, that they have, and bid them so be gone.
Boyet.
She says, you have it, and you may be gone.
King.
Say to her we have measur’d many miles,
To tread a measure with her on this grass.
Boyet.
They say that they have measur’d many a mile
To tread a measure with you on this grass.
Ros.
It is not so. Ask them how many inches
Is in one mile: if they have measured many,
The measure then of one is eas’ly told.
Boyet.
If to come hither you have measur’d miles,
And many miles, the Princess bids you tell
How many inches doth fill up one mile.
Ber.
Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.
Boyet.
She hears herself.
Ros.
How many weary steps
Of many weary miles you have o’ergone
Are numb’red in the travel of one mile?
Ber.
We number nothing that we spend for you;
Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
That we may do it still without accompt.
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,
That we (like savages) may worship it.
Ros.
My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
King.
Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!
Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine
(Those clouds removed) upon our watery eyne.
Ros.
O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter,
Thou now requests but moonshine in the water.
King.
Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change.
Thou bid’st me beg; this begging is not strange.
Ros.
Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.