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.