Pro.
Have patience, gentle Julia?

Jul.
I must where there is no remedy.

Pro.
When possibly I can, I will return.

Jul.
If you turn not, you will return the sooner;
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake [Giving a ring.

Pro.
Why then we'll make exchange with this; [Giving his ring.
And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day,
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake;
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!
My dearest Julia! what—not a word?
Ay, so true love should do; it cannot speak.
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Lucetta re-enters.

Luc.
Sir Protheus, your servant waits.

Pro.
I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb— [Exit.

Jul. [After a pause]
Counsel Lucetta; gentle girl assist me;
And even in kind love, I do conjure thee,
To lesson me; and tell me some good mean
How with my honour, I may go to Milan,
After my loving Protheus.

Luc.
Loving and belov'd is't not lady?

So, so, so,—You blush too—nay then the secret is out; you do confess your love to him, and cruelty to me—But, madam, pray stay where you are—He can write letters you know—and you can fright me when I present them to you.

Jul.

Dear Lucetta.

Luc.

Well, well, though the flame is broke out—pray damp its violence—call prudence to your aid—consider the way is wearisome and long—

Jul.
A true devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly;
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection as sir Protheus.

Luc.
Better forbear till Protheus make return.

Jul.
Thou know'st not that his looks are my soul's food?
Did'st thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

Luc.
Nay, nay.
But qualify the fire's extremest rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

Jul.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st being stop'd, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hinder'd,
He makes sweet musick with th' enamell'd stones;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course;
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
'Till the last step hath brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

Luc.
But in what habit will you go along?

Jul.
Not like a woman; for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men.
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well reputed page.

Luc.
Why then your ladyship must cut your hair.

Jul.
No girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings,
With twenty odd conceited true love-knots:
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall shew to be.

Luc.
What fashion, madam, shall I make your habit?

Jul.
Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have
What thou think'st meet, and is most manerly;
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
For undertaking so unstay'd a journey?
I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.

Luc.
If you think so, then stay at home, and go not.

Jul.
Nay, that I will not.

Luc.
Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Protheus like your journey, when you come,
No matter who's displeas'd, when you are gone:
I fear me, he will scarce be pleas'd withal.

Jul.
That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear.
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances as infinite of love,
Warrant me welcome to my Protheus.

Luc.
All these are servants to deceitful men.

Jul.
Base men that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did govern Protheus' birth;
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;
His heart as far from fraud, as heav'n from earth.

Luc.
Pray heav'n he prove so, when you come to him.

Jul.
Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong,
To bear a hard opinion of his truth;
Only deserve my love by loving him:
And presently go with me to my chamber,
To take a note of what I stand in need of;
To furnish me upon my longing journey.
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
And what's more dear than all, my reputation!
Only in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence:
Come, answer not, but do it presently,
I am impatient of thy tarriance. [Exeunt End of the FIRST ACT.

ACT II. SCENE I. Scene changes to Milan. An Appartment in the Duke's Palace. Valentine and Speed.

Speed.
Sir your glove. [presenting a lady's glove.

Val.
Not mine.
Ha! let me see it: ay, give it me, 'its mine:
Sweet ornament, that decks a thing divine!
Ah Silvia! Silvia!

Speed. [calling aloud.]

Madam Silvia! madam Silvia!

Val.

How now, sirrah!

Speed.

She is not within hearing, sir.

Val.

Why sir, who bid you call her?

Speed.

Your worship, sir, or else I mistook.

Val

Well,—you'll still be too forward.

Speed.

And yet I was last night chidden for being too slow.

Val.

Go to sir,—tell me, do you know madam Silvia?

Speed.

She that your worship loves?

Val.

Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed.

Marry sir, by these special old marks; first, you have learned, like sir Protheus, to wreath your arms like a malecontent—to walk alone like one that had the pestilence; with your hat, pent-house like, over your eyes, and your hands in your pocket, like a Dutchman.—You sigh—weep— fast—watch—and speak puling like a beggar at Hallowmass. You were wont, when you laugh'd, to crow like a cock— when you walk'd, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly —it was for want of money;—but now you are so metamorphos'd with a mistress, that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.

Val.
Are all these things perceived in me?

Speed.
They are all perceiv'd without you.

Val.
But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

Speed.
She that you gaze so on at supper?

Val.
Hast thou observ'd that? even she I mean.

Speed.
Why sir, I know her not.

Val.
Dost thou know her by my gazing on her,
And yet know'st her not?

Speed.
Is she not hard-favour'd, sir?

Val.
Not so fair, as well-favour'd.

Speed.
Sir, I know that well enough.

Val.
What dost thou know?

Speed.
That she is not so fair, as of you well-favour'd.
You never saw her since she was deform'd?

Val.
How long hath she been deform'd?

Speed.
Ever since you lov'd her.

Val.
I have lov'd her ever since I saw her,
And still I see her beautiful.

Speed.

If you love her, sir, you cannot see her. O, that you had mine eyes! or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have, when you chid sir Protheus for going ungarter'd.

Val.

What should I see then?

Speed.

Your own present folly, and her passing deformity.— For he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, this morning could not see to put your hose on.

Val.

Well then, in conclusion, I stand affected to her.

Speed.

I would you would set, so your affection would cease.

Val.

Last night she enjoin'd me (strange employment!) to write some lines to one she loves.

Speed.
And have you, sir?

Val.
I have.

Speed.
Are they not lamely written?

Val.
No, boy, but as well as I can do them:
Peace, here she comes. Enter Silvia.

Speed.
Oh excellent motion! Oh exceeding puppet!
Now will he interpret to her. [Aside.

Val.
Madam, and mistress, a thousand good morrows.

Speed.
Oh! give you good even—Here's a million of manners. [Aside.

Silvia.
Sir Valentine, and servant, to you two thousand.

Speed.
He should give her interest, and she gives it him. [Aside.

Val.
As you injoin'd me, I have writ your letter
Unto the secret, happy, friend of yours;
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in,
But for my duty to your ladyship.

Silvia. [Takes the paper and looks at it.]
—I thank you, gentle servant,
'Tis very clerkly done.

Val.
Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off,
For, being ignorant to whom it goes,
I writ at random very doubtfully.

Silvia.
Perchance you think too much of all this pains? [All this while she is reading in the paper, but now and then looking over at Valentine.

Val.
No, madam, so it serves you, I will write,
Please you command—a thousand times as much;
And yet—

Silvia. [Reading out.]

I should do wrong to merit, not to love and honour you—

Speed.
And yet you will—and yet you won't—and yet—
Another yet, I beg. [Aside.

Val.
What means your ladyship? do you not like it?

Silvia.
Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ;
But, since unwillingly, take them again—
Nay take them.—

Val.
Madam, they are for you.—

Silvia.
Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request—
But I will none of them—They are for you!
I would have had them writ more movingly.—

Val.
Please you I'll write your ladyship another.

Silvia.
And when 'tis writ—for my sake read it over—
And if it please you, so; if not, why so.

Val.
If it please me, madam, what then?

Silvia.
Why, if it please you—take it for your labour:
And so good morrow, servant. [Exit.

Speed.
O jest unseen! inscrutable! invisible!
As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better?

That my master, being the scribe to himself, should write the letter.

Val.

How now, sir, what are you reasoning with yourself?

Speed.

Nay, I was rhiming, 'tis you that have the reason.

Val.

To do what?

Speed.

To be a spokesman from madam Silvia.

Val.

To whom?

Speed.

To yourself; why she wooes you by a figure.

Val.

What figure?

Speed.

By a letter, I should say.

Val.

Why, she hath not writ to me?

Speed.

What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

Val.

No, believe me.

Speed.

No believing you indeed, sir—but did you perceive her earnest?

Val.

She gave me none.

Speed.
Why, she hath given you a letter.

Val.
That's the letter I wrote to her friend.

Speed.
And that letter hath she deliver'd—and there's an end.

Val.
I would it were no worse.

Speed.
I'll warrant you 'tis as well;
For often have you writ to her, and she in modesty,
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover,
Herself hath taught her love himself, to write unto her lover.
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.
Why muse you, sir?—'tis near dinner-time.

Val.

I have din'd.

Speed.

Ay, but hearken, sir, though the camelion love can feed on air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.—

Val.

Begone then, and leave me.

Speed.

O, sir, follow your mistress's direction—write more movingly—be mov'd, sir, be mov'd—

Val. [Pausing.]
My jealous fears confound me!—Silvia!
The unblown rose, the chrystal, nor the diamond,
Are not more pure than she! Her very name,
Like some celestial fire, quickens my spirit!
She is the star by whom my fate is led! Re-enter Silvia.
She comes again! her eyes are smiling too!
Kindly as sun-shine to the new-born spring!
My dearest Silvia! distract me not with riddles—
I am on the verge of happiness or misery!
Lord Thurio is my rival! a potent one!
Proud of his wealth and power—but, what is worse,
Approv'd, nay chosen, by the duke your father.

Silvia.
'Tis true: and that's my grief. But I am free,
And will not be enslav'd; nor doom'd to wed
That singing, vain, that self-sufficient lord.—

To your protection I submit myself.

Val.
My arms shall be your sanctuary!
I'll lodge you in my bosom, and wear you [Lord Thurio is heard singing without.
In my heart—lord Thurio comes!
Let us retire.

Silvia.
We are observ'd—this paper will direct you. [Gives a paper to Valentine, who retires with it to the back of the scene.] Enter Lord Thurio, singing.

Thurio.

Lady Silvia—I am your ladpship's slave. I have been sitting for my picture this morning; in hopes you will receive the shadow of your humble servant, with more kindness than you are pleas'd to honour the substance: but if I had my will, the painter should take me at my prayers—there is then a heavenly beauty in the face—the soul moves in the superficies; and would bear an exact semblance of the adoration I pay to your charms.

Silvia.
My lord, your compliment calls your faith in question,
But you were bred with the milk of the court!
You speak the courtier's dialect—and it becomes you. [Turning to Valentine.
Well servant—what say you, sir? you are sad?

Val.
Indeed madam, I seem so.

Thurio.
Seem you that you are not?

Val.
Haply I do.

Thurio.
So do counterfeits.

Val.
So do you.

Thurio.
What seem I that I am not?

Val.
Wife.

Thurio.
What instance of the contrary?

Val.
Folly.

Thurio.
And pray how quote you my folly?

Val.
I quote it in your jerkin.

Thurio.
My jerkin is a doublet.

Val.
Well then, I'll double your folly.

Thurio.
How?

Silvia.
What angry, my lord, do you change colour?

Val.
Give him leave, madam, he is a kind of cameleon.

Thurio.
That hath more mind to feed on your blood,
Than live in your air.

Val.
You have said, my lord.

Thurio.
Ay, sir, and done too for this time.

Val.
I know it well; you always end, ere you begin.

Silvia.

A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

Val.

True indeed, madam, we thank the giver.

Silvia.

Who is that, servant?

Val.

Yourself sweet lady; my lord Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

Thurio.

Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

Val.

I know it well, my lord; you have an exchequer of words, but they wou'd appear better when set to a tune— your lordship wou'd sing them better than any man of quality at court.

Silvia.

No more, gentlemen, no more—here comes my father.

Duke.
Now daughter Silvia, you are hard beset:
Sir Valentine, your father's in good health:
What say you to a letter from your friends,
Of much good news?

Val.
My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke.
Know you, don Anthonio, your countryman?

Val.
Ay, my good lord, I know the nobleman
To be of worth, and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke.
Hath he not a son?

Val.
Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves
The honour and regard of such a father.

Duke.
You know him well?

Val.
I knew him as myself; for from our infancy
We have convers'd, and spent our hours together:
And tho' myself have been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time,
To cloath mine age with angel-like perfection;
Yet hath sir Protheus [For that's his name,]
Made use and fair advantage of his days;
His years but young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe;
And, in a word, for far behind his worth,
Come all the praises that I now bestow,
He is compleat in feature and in mind,
With all good deeds to grace a gentleman.

Duke.
Beshrew me, sir, but if he makes this good,
He is as worthy for an empress' love.
As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me,
With commendations, from great potentates;
And here he means to spend some time, a while:
I think, 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

Val.
Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.

Duke.
Welcome him then according to his worth:
Silvia, I speak to you; and you, lord Thurio;
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it:
I'll send him hither to you presently. [Exit Duke.

Val.
This is the gentleman, I told your ladyship,
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes, lockt in her chrystal looks.

Sil.
Belike that now she hath enfranchis'd them
Upon some other pawn for fealty.

Val.
Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

Sil.
Nay then, he should be blind; and being blind,
How could he see his way to seek you out?

Val.
Why lady, love hath twenty pair of eyes.

Thurio.
They say that love hath not an eye at all.

Val.
To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:
Upon a homely object, love can wink.

Sil.
Have done, have done, here comes the gentleman. Enter Protheus.

Val.
Welcome, dear Protheus: lady, I beseech you,
Confirm his welcome, by some special favour.

Sil.
His worth is warrant for his welcome hither.
If this be he, you oft have wish'd to hear from?

Val.
Mistress, it is; sweet lady entertain him,
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

Sil.
Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Pro.
Not so, sweet lady, but too mean a servant,
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.
My duty will I boast of, nothing else.

Sil.
And duty never yet did want his meed:
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

Pro.
I'll die on him that says so, but yourself.

Sil.
That you are welcome!

Pro.
That you are worthless. Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

Sil.

I'll wait upon his pleasure. [Exit servant.] Come, lord Thurio, your hand.

Once more, my new servant, welcome.
We'll leave you to confer on home affairs;
When you have done, we look to hear from you. [Exit Silvia and Thurio.

Val.
Now tell me, how do all, from whence you came?

Pro.
Your friends are well, and have them much commended.

Val.
How does your lady? and how thrives your love?

Pro.
My tales of love were not wont to weary you;
I know you joy not in a love discourse.

Val.
Ay, Protheus, but that life is alter'd now!
I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans:
For in revenge of my contempt of love,
Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes;
O gentle Protheus, love's a mighty lord;
And hath so humbled me, as I confess,
There is no woe to his correction;
Nor to his service, no such joy on earth!
Now, no discourse, except it be of love;
Now, I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
Upon the very naked name of love.

Pro.
Enough, I read your fortune in your eye.
Was this the idol that you worship so?

Val.
Even she; and is she not a heav'nly saint?

Pro.
No; but she is an earthly paragon.

Val.
Call her divine!

Pro.
I will not flatter her.

Val.
O, flatter me; for love delights in praise.

Pro.
When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills;
And I must minister the like to you.

Val.
Then speak the truth of her; if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality,
Sov'reign to all the creatures on the earth!

Pro.
Except my mistress.

Val.
O friend, except not any.

Pro.
Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

Val.
And I will help thee to prefer her too:
She shall be dignify'd with this high honour,
To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss;
And of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer swelling flower;
And make rough winter everlastingly.

Pro.
Why, Valentine! what bragadism is this?

Val.
Pardon me, Protheus; all I can, is nothing
To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
She is alone—

Pro.
Then let her alone.

Val.
Not for the world; why man she is my own;
And I as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold!
Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee,
Because thou seest me doat upon my love.
My foolish rival, that her father likes,
(Only for his possessions are so huge,)
Is gone with her along, and I must after:
For love, thou know'st is full of jealousie.

Pro.
But she loves you?

Val.
Ay, And we are betroth'd; nay more, our marriage hour;
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determin'd on; how I must climb her window,
The ladder made of cords; and all the means
Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.
Good Protheus, go with me to my chamber,
In these affairs, to aid me with thy counsel.

Pro.
Go on before; I shall enquire you forth.
I'll step to my apartment;—there I want,
Some necessaries that I needs must use;
And then I'll presently attend you.— [Exit Valentine.
Ev'n as one heat another heat expels;
So the remembrance of my former love
Is, by a newer object, quite forgotten.
Is it mine eye, or Valentino's praise,
Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
That makes me reasonless, to reason thus?
She's fair; and so is Julia that I love,
That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;
Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold;
And that I love him not as I was wont.
O! but I love his lady too, too, much!
And that's the reason I love him so little.
How shall I doat on her with more advice,
That thus without advice, begin to love her?
'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
And that hath dazzled so my reason's light:

And when I look on her perfections,
There is no reason but I shall be blind!
If I can check my erring love, I will;
If not to compass her, I'll use my skill. Scene changes to a street in Milan. Enter Launce with his Dog Crab— Launce sobbing and crying.

Launce.

Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault; I have receiv'd my proportion, like the prodigeous son, and am come here with my master, to the court of Milan. I think, Crab my dog, be the sowerest-natur'd dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, and all our house in great perplexity; yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear—He is a stone, a very pebble stone; a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam having no eyes, wept herself blind, at my parting;—nay,—I'll shew the manner of it: this shoe is my father, no this left shoe is my father—No, no, this left shoe is my mother, ay, it is so, it hath the worser sole; this shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance on't there 'tis: now sir, this staff is my sister, for look you, she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand?—This hat is Nan—ay, black Nan, our maid; I am the dog,—No he is the dog, and I am myself.— Now come I to my father; father, your blessing.—Now the shoe can't speak a word for weeping, well he weeps on: Now come I to my mother.—Oh, that she could speak now, but good woman, her breath goes up and down.—Now come I to my sister.—Mark the moan she makes: now Crab all this while sheds not one tear!—But see how I lay the dust with my tears.

Speed.

What, my old friend Launce, welcome to Milan.— What, in tears man?

Launce.

Ay, [Sobing.] only Crab and I, of all our family, in a strange place.

Speed.

Come Launce—dry thy tears, by my honesty, thou shalt be welcome in Milan.—

Launce.

Forswear not thyself, friend, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone, 'till he be hang'd: nor never welcome to a place 'till certain shot be paid, and the hostess say, welcome.

Speed.

Come on you madcap; I'll go with you presently: where, for one shot of fivepence, thou shalt have a flagon of rhenish, and a thousand welcomes. But, friend Launce, how did thy master part with madam Julia?

Launce.

Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest.

Speed.

But shall she marry him?

Launce.

No.

Speed.

How then? shall he marry her?

Launce.

No, neither.

Speed.

What, are they broken?

Launce.

No, they are both as whole as a fish.

Speed.

Why, then, how stands the matter with them?

Launce.

Why, not at all.

Speed.

What an ass art thou? I understand thee not.

Launce.

What a block art thou, that thou canst not?

Speed.

But, Launce, tell me true, wil't be a match?

Launce.

Ask my dog Crab; if he says ay, it will; if he says no, it will; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will.

Speed.

The conclusion is then, that it will.

Launce.

Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

Speed.

'Tis well that I get it so; but, Launce, what say'st thou? that my master is become a notable lover?

Launce.
I never knew him otherwise.

Speed.
Than how?

Launce.
A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

Speed.
Why, thou whor'son ass, thou mistakest me.
I tell thee my master is become a hot lover.

Launce.

Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love: if thou wilt go with me, and give me the flaggon of rhenish, so—if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.

Speed.

Why?

Launce.

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the tavern with a Christian: wilt thou go?

Speed.

At thy service.

Pro.
To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn:
And ev'n that power, which gave me first my oath,
Provokes me to this threefold perjury.
Love bad me swear, and love bids me forswear.

O, sweet suggesting love! if I have sinn'd,
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it.
At first I did adore a twinkling star;
But now I worship a celestial sun!
Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;
And he wants wit, that wants resolved will
To learn his wit t'exchange the bad for better,
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
Whose sov'reignty so oft thou hast preferr'd
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose;
If I keep them, I needs must lose myself:
If I lose them, this I find I by their loss,
For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia!
And Silvia (witness heav'n that made her fair!)
Shews Julia but a swarthy Ethiop!
I will forget that Julia is alive;
Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead:
And Valentine I'll hold my enemy,
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend!
This night, he meaneth, with a corded ladder,
To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window:
Myself in counsel, his competitor.
Now, presently, I'll give her father notice
Of their disguising, and pretended flight;
Who, all-enrag'd, will banish Valentine;
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter.
But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross,
By some sly trick, blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.
Love lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me skill to plot this drift. [Exit. End of the SECOND ACT.

ACT III. SCENE I. SCENE, The garden of the duke's palace. Enter Duke, Thurio, and Protheus.

Duke.
Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, a while;
We have some secrets to confer about. [Exit Thurio.
Now tell me, Protheus, what's your will with me?

Pro.
My gracious lord, that which I would discover,
The law of friendship bids me to conceal:
But, when I call to mind your gracious favours
Done to me, undeserving as I am,
My duty pricks me on to utter that,
Which, else, no worldly good should draw from me.
Know, worthy Prince, sir Valentine, my friend,
This night intends to steal away your daughter;
Myself am one made privy to the plot.
I know you have determin'd to bestow her
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates:
And, should she thus be stol'n away from you,
It would be much vexation to your age.
Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chuse
To cross my friend in his intended drift,
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
A pack of sorrows, which would press you down,
If unprevented, to your timeless grave.

Duke.
Protheus, I thank thee for thine honest care;
Which to requite, command me while I live.
This love of theirs myself have often seen,
And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid
Sir Valentine her company, and my court:
But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err,
And so unworthily disgrace the man,
(A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd)
I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find
That which thyself hath now disclos'd to me.
And, that thou may'st perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself hath ever kept;
And thence she cannot be convey'd away.

Pro.
Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean
How he her chamber-window will ascend,
And with a corded ladder fetch her down;
For which the youthful lover now is gone,
And this way comes he with it presently:
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly,
That my discov'ry be not aimed at:
For, love of you, not hate unto my friend,
Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Duke.
Upon mine honour, he shall never know
That I had any light from thee of this.

Pro.
Adieu, my lord: sir Valentine is coming. [Exit Protheus. SCENE II. Enter Valentine.

Duke.
Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Val.
Please it your grace, there is a messenger
That stays to bear my letters to my friends,
And I am going to deliver them.

Duke.
Be they of much import?

Val.
The tenor of them doth but signify
My health, and happy being at your court.

Duke.
Nay, then, no matter; stay with me a while;
I am to break with thee of some affairs
That touch me near; wherein thou must be secret.
'Tis not unknown to thee, that I have sought
To match my friend, lord Thurio, to my daughter.

Val.
I know it well, my lord; and sure the match
Were rich and honourable; besides, the nobleman
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities,
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.
Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?

Duke.
No, trust me, she is peevish, sullen, froward,
Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;
Neither regarding that she is my child,
Nor fearing me as if I were her father:
And may I say to thee, this pride of her's,
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;

And where I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty,
I now am full resolv'd to take a wife,
And turn her out to who will take her in:
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;
For me and my possessions she esteems not.

Val.
What would your grace have me to do in this?

Duke.
There is a lady, sir, in Milan here,
Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy,
And nought esteems my aged eloquence:
Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor;
(For long agone I have forgot to court;
Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd)
How and which way I may bestow myself,
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Val.
Win her with gifts, if she respects not words;
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,
More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.

Duke.
But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

Val.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her;
Send her another; never give her o'er;
For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you:
If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone:
For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
For, get you gone, she doth not mean away.
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;
Tho' ne'er so black, say they have angels faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If, with his tongue, he cannot win a woman.

Duke.
But she I mean, is promised by her friends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,
And kept severely from resort of men,
That no man hath access by day to her.

Val.
Why, then, I would resort to her by night.

Duke.
Ay, but the doors be lockt, and keys kept safe,
That no man hath recourse to her by night.

Val.
What lets but one may enter at her window?

Duke.
Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it,
Without apparent hazard of his life.

Val.
Why, then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero's tower,
So bold Leander would adventure it.

Duke.
Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where I may have such a ladder?

Val.
When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that?

Duke.
This very night; for love is like a child,
That longs for ev'ry thing that he cannot come by.

Val.
By nine o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.

Duke.
But, hark thee, I will go to her alone.
How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

Val.
It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
Under a cloak that is of any length.

Duke.
A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn.

Val.
Ay, my good lord.

Duke.
Then let me see thy cloak;
I'll get me one of such another length.

Val.
Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

Duke.
How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?
I pray thee let me feel thy cloak upon me.
What letter is this same? what's here? To Silvia!
And here the engine fit for my proceeding!
I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [Duke reads.
What's here? ‘Silvia, this night will I enfranchise thee.’
'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.
Why, Phaeton, for thou art Merop's son,
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! over-weening slave!
Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,
And think my patience, more than thy desert,
Is privilege for thy departure hence:
Thank me for this, more than for all the favours
Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee.
But, if thou linger in my territories,
Longer than swiftest expedition
Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
By heav'n, my wrath shall far exceed the love
I ever bore my daughter or thyself:
Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;
But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence. [Exit.

SCENE III.

Val.
And why not death, rather than living torment?
‘To die, is to be banish'd from myself,
‘And Silvia is myself; banish'd from her
‘Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
‘What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
‘What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
‘Unless it be to think that she is by;
‘And feed upon the shadow of perfection.
‘Except I' be by Silvia in the night,
‘There is no music in the nightingale:
‘Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
‘There is no day for me to look upon.’
She is my essence, and I leave to be
If I be not, by her fair influence,
Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.
I fly not death to fly his deadly doom:
Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
But fly I hence, I fly away from life. Enter Protheus and Launce.

Pro.
Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

Launce.
So-ho, so-ho!

Pro.
What seest thou?

Launce.
Him we go to find.
There's not a hair on's head but 'tis a Valentine.

Pro.
Valentine!

Val.
No.

Pro.
Who then; his spirit?

Val.
Neither.

Pro.
What then?

Val.
Nothing.

Launce.
Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Pro.
Whom wouldst thou strike?

Launce.
Nothing.

Pro.
Villain, forbear!

Launce.

Why, sir, I'll strike nothing; pray let me strike nothing.

Pro.
I say, forbear! Friend Valentine, a word.

Val.
My ears are stopt, and cannot hear good news,
So much of bad already hath possest them.

Pro.
Then in dumb silence will I bury mine;
For they are harsh, untunable, and bad.

Val.
Is Silvia dead?

Pro.
No, Valentine.

Val.
No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia:
Hath she forsworn me?

Pro.
No, Valentine.

Val.
No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.
What is your news?

Launce.
Sir, there's a proclamation that you are vanish'd.

Pro.
That thou art banish'd; Oh! that is the news;
From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val.
Oh, I have fed upon this woe already;
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banish'd?

Pro.
Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom,
Which, unrevers'd, stands in effectual force,
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those, at her father's churlish feet, she tender'd,
With them, upon her knees, her humble self,
Wringing her hands; whose whiteness so became them,
As if but now they waxed pale for woe.
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate fire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so,
When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
That to close prison he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val.
No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st
Have some malignant pow'r upon my life:
If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro.
Cease to lament for that thou can'st not help,
And study help for that which thou lament'st.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good:
Here if thou stay, thou can'st not see thy love;
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lover's staff, walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing thoughts.
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd
Ev'n in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate;
Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate,
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs:

As thou lov'st Silvia, tho' not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me.

Val.
I pray thee, Launce, and if thou see'st my boy,
Bid him make haste, and meet me at the north-gate.

Pro.
Go, sirrah, find him out: come, Valentine.

Val.
O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine! [Exeunt. Scene 4

Launce.

I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have wit enough to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love, yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who 'tis I love, and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milk-maid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages: she hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. Here is the cat-log [Pulling out a paper] of her conditions: Imprimis, she can fetch and carry; why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. Item, she can milk; look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Speed.

How now, signor Launce? what news with you?

Launce.

The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.

Speed.

Why, man, how black?

Launce.

Why, as black as ink.

Speed.

Let me read them.

Launce.

Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou can'st not read.

Speed.

Thou lyest, I can.

Launce.

I will try the; tell me this, who begot thee?

Speed.

Marry, the son of my grand-father.

Launce.

O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grand-mother: this proves thou can'st not read.

Speed.

Come fool, come, try me in thy paper.

Launce.

There, and St. Nicholas be thy speed.

Speed.

Imprimis, she can milk.

Launce.

Ay, that she can.

Speed.

Item, she brews good ale.

Launce.

And therefore comes the proverb, ‘Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.’

Speed.

She can sew.

Launce.

That's as much as to say, ‘can she so?’

Speed.

Item, she can knit.

Launce.

An excellent quality. I shall wear good stockings.

Speed.

Item, she can wash and scour.

Launce.

A special virtue, for then she need not to be wash'd and scour'd.

Speed.

Item, she can spin.

Launce.

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

Speed.

Item, she hath many nameless virtues.

Launce.

That's as much as to say bastard virtues, that indeed now not their fathers, and therefore have no names.

Speed.

Here follow her vices.

Launce.

Close at the heels of her virtues.

Speed.

Item, she is not to be kist fasting, in respect of her breath.

Launce.

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast: read on.

Speed.

Item, she doth talk in her sleep.

Launce.

So much the better, I shall know all her secrets.

Speed.

Item, she is slow in words.

Launce.

Oh villain! that set down among her vices! to be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray thee out with't, and place it for her chief virtue.

Speed.

Item, she hath no teeth.

Launce.

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

Speed.

Item, she will often praise her liquor.

Launce.

If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I will, for good things should be praised.

Speed.

Item, she is too liberal.

Launce.

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut; now of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed,

Speed.

Item, she hath more hairs than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.

Launce.

Stop here; I'll have her; she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that article. Read that once more.

Speed.

Item, she hath more hairs than wit, and more faults than hairs.

Launce.

That's monstrous: oh that that were out.

Speed.

And more wealth than faults.

Launce.

Why, that word wealth makes the faults gracious: well, I'll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible—

Speed.

What then?

Launce.

Why then will I tell thee, that thy master stays for thee at the north-gate.

Speed.

For me?

Launce.

For thee? ay, who art thou? he hath staid for a better man than thee. Why thy master is vanish'd.

Speed.

And I must go to him?

Launce.

Thou must run to him; for thou hast staid so long lurking here like an idle fellow, that going will scarce serve turn.

Speed.

Why didst not tell me sooner? pox on your love-letters.

Launce.

Now will he be swing'd for reading my letter: an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I'll after, to rejoce in the boy's correction.