Pro.
Already I've been false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the colour of commending him,
I have access my own love to prefer:
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
When I protest true loyalty to her,
She twits me with my falshood to my friend;
When to her beauty I commend my vows,
She bids me think, how I have been forsworn
In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd.

And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still.
But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window,
And give some evening musick to her ear. Enter Thurio and Musicians.

Thu.
How now, Sir Protheus, are you crept before us?

Pro.
Ay, gentle Thurio; for, you know, that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go.

Thu.
Ay, but I hope, Sir, that you love not here.

Pro.
Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.

Thu.
Whom, Silvia?

Pro.
Ay, Silvia, for your sake.

Thu.
I thank you, for your own: now, gentlemen,
Let's tune, and to it lustily a while.

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