Veale quoth the Dutch-man: is not Veale a
Calfe?
Long. A Calfe faire Ladie?
Mar. No, a faire Lord Calfe
Long. Let's part the word
Mar. No, Ile not be your halfe:
Take all and weane it, it may proue an Oxe
Long. Looke how you but your selfe in these sharpe
mockes.
Will you giue hornes chast Ladie? Do not so
Mar. Then die a Calfe before your horns do grow
Lon. One word in priuate with you ere I die
Mar. Bleat softly then, the Butcher heares you cry
Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
As is the Razors edge, inuisible:
Cutting a smaller haire then may be seene,
Aboue the sense of sence so sensible:
Seemeth their conference, their conceits haue wings,
Fleeter then arrows, bullets wind, thoght, swifter things
Rosa. Not one word more my maides, breake off,
breake off
Ber. By heauen, all drie beaten with pure scoffe
King. Farewell madde Wenches, you haue simple
wits.
Exeunt.
Qu. Twentie adieus my frozen Muscouits.
Are these the breed of wits so wondred at?
Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweete breathes
puft out
Rosa. Wel-liking wits they haue, grosse, grosse, fat, fat
Qu. O pouertie in wit, Kingly poore flout.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99