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.