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What letter is this same? What's here To Silvia
And here an engine fit for my proceeding!
I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [reads.
My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ;

And slaves they are to me, that send them flying: 0, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge, where senseless they are

lying. My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them,

While I, their king, that thither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd

them, Because myself do want my servants' fortune : I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord should

be. What's here? Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee: 'Tis so: and here's the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaëton (for thou art Merops' 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, Whicls, 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 beaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter, or thyself. Be gove, I will not hear thy vain excuse, But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence.

(Erit Duke. Val. And why not death, rather than living tor.


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,
Aud 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 tbe 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 ipfuence
Foster'd, illumin’d, cherish'd, kept alive.
I fiy 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 Proteus und Launce.
Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.
Laun. So-ho! so-ho!
Pro. What seest thou?

Laun. Him we go to find: there's not a hair ou's head, but 'tis a Valentine.

Pro. Valentine?
Val. No.
Pro. Who then? his spirit?
Vul Neither.
Pro. What then?
Val. Nothing.
Laun. Can nothing speak? master, shall I strike?
Pro. Whom would'st thou strike?
Laun. Nothing.
Pro. Villain, forbear.
Laun. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,
Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear: friend Valentine, a

Vul. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good

news, So much of bad already hath possess'd them,

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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?
Laun. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are

Pro. That thou art banished, 0, that's the news;
From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already,
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished ?

Pro. Ay, ay; and she bath offer'd 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;
Wringiog her bands, whose whiteness so became

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 sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta’eu, must die.
Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so,
When she for thig 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

Have some malignant power upon my life:
If so, I pray thee, breathe it in nine ear,
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

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And study help for that which thou lament'st.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
Here if thou stay, thou canst uot see thy love;
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairiug thoughts.
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate :
Come, l'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, though not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me.

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest 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 Valentine and Proteus. Laun. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think, my master is a kind of iknave; but that's all one, if he be 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 that 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 ber 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. Impriinis, She can fetch and curry. 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.


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Enter Speed.

Speed. How now, Signior Launce? what news with your mastership?

Laun With my master's ship? why, it is at sea.

Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word : what news theu in your paper?

Laun, The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.
Speed. Wliy, man, how black?
Laun. Why, as black as ink.
Speed. Let me read them.

Laun. Fie on thee, jolt-head; thou canst not read.

Speed. Thou liest, I can.

Laun. I will try thee: tell me this: who begot thee?

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Laun. O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves, that thou canst not read.

Speed. Conne, fool, come: try me in thy paper. Laun. There; and Saint Nicholas* be thy speed ! Speed. Item, She brews good ale.

Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, --Blesse ing of your heart, you brew good ale.

Speed. Item, She can sew.
Luun. That's as much as to say, Can she so ?
Speed. Item, She can knit.

Laun. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she cau knit him a stock?

Speed. Item, She can wash and scour.

Laun. A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured.

Speed. Item, She can spin.

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

Speed. Item, She hath many nameless virtues.

* St. Nicholas presided over young scholars.

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