To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

[Enter BOYET.]

PRINCESS.
Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

BOYET.
O! I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her Grace?

PRINCESS.
Thy news, Boyet?

BOYET.
Prepare, madam, prepare!--
Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are
Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis'd,
Armed in arguments; you'll be surpris'd:
Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;
Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

PRINCESS.
Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they
That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say.

BOYET.
Under the cool shade of a sycamore
I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour;
When, lo, to interrupt my purpos'd rest,
Toward that shade I might behold addrest