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you write to yourself? Why, do you not per- | crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her
ceive the jest?

hands, 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, and has no
more pity in him than a dog; a Jew would have
wept to have seen our parting: why, my grandam,
having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at
my parting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of
it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoe
is my father; no, no, this left shoe is my
mother; nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it
is so, 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, our maid: I am the dog; no, the dog is
himself, and I am the dog; O! the dog is me,
and I am myself: ay, so, so. Now come I to my
father; Father, your blessing': now should not
the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should
I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come
I to my mother; O! that she could speak now
like a wood woman. Well, I kiss her; why,
there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and
down. Now come I to my sister; mark the
moan she makes: now the dog all this while
sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how
I lay the dust with my tears.


Val. No, believe me.

Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir: but did you perceive her earnest ?


Val. She gave me none, except an angry word.
Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter.
Val. That's the letter I writ to her friend.
Speed. And that letter hath she delivered, and
there 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

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 dinner-time.

Val. I have dined.

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir: though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. O! be not like your mistress: be moved, be moved. Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Verona. A Room in JULIA's House.
Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia.
Jul. I must, where 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: here,
take you this.

Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
Pro. 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 father stays my coming; answer not.
The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;
That tide will stay me longer than I should.
Julia, farewell.
What! gone without a word?
Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak ;
Fortruth hath better deeds than words to grace it.



Pant. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.
Go; I come, I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 2)


Pant. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you'll lose the tide if you tarry any longer.


Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

Pant. What's the unkindest tide?

Launce. Why, he that 's tied here, Crab, my dog.
Pant. Tut man, I mean thou 'lt lose the flood;
and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage; and,
in losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and, in
losing thy master, lose thy service; and, in losing
thy service,-Why dost thou stop my mouth? 51
Launce. For fear thou should'st lose thy tongue.
Pant. Where should I lose my tongue?
Launce. In thy tale.
Pant. In thy tail!

Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the
master, and the service, and the tied! Why,
man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it
with my tears; if the wind were down, I could
drive the boat with my sighs.


Pant. Come, come away, man; I was sent to
call thee.

Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest.
Pant. Wilt thou go?

Launce. Well, I will go.


SCENE III.-The Same. A Street.

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog.

Sil. Servant!

Launce. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping: all the kind of the Launces have Enter VALENTINE, SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED. this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the imperial's court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister

SCENE IV.-Milan. A Room in the DUKE'S

Val. Mistress?

Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you
Val. Ay, boy, it's for love.
Speed. Not of you,

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Val. Of my mistress then.
Speed. "Twere good you knocked him.
Sil. Servant, you are sad.

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Come all the praises that I now bestow,
He is complete in feature and in mind
With all good grace to grace a gentleman.
Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
10 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 commendation from great potentates;
And here he means to spend his time awhile. 80
I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

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

Duke. Welcome him then according to his

20 Silvia, I speak to you; and you, Sir Thurio:
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.
I'll send him hither to you presently.


Val. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.
Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchis'd them


Thu. Seem you that you are not?
Val. Haply I do.

Thu. So do counterfeits.

Val. So do you.

Thu. What seem I that I am not?
Val. Wise.

Thu. What instance of the contrary?
Val. Your folly.

Thu. And how quote you my folly?
Val. I quote it in your jerkin.

Thu. My jerkin is a doublet.

Val. Well, then, I'll double your folly.
Thu. How?

Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?


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

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your Upon some other pawn for fealty. blood than live in your air.

Val. You have said, sir.


Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. Val. I know it well, sir: you always end ere you begin.

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

Val. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.
Sil. Who is that, servant?

Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.


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

Val. I know it well, sir: you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words. Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.

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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 know him as myself; for from our infancy
We have convers'd and spent our hours together:
And though myself have been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
Yet hath Sir Proteus, 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; 70
And, in a word, for far behind his worth

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 out you?

Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. Thu. 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.

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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.

Val. Leave off discourse of disability.
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.
Pro. 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?


That you are worthless.


Enter a Servant.

Sere. Madam, my lord your father would speak
with you.

Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. Exit Servant.
Come, Sir Thurio,
Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome :
I'll leave you to confer of home-affairs;
When you have done, we look to hear from you.
Pro. We'll both attend upon your ladyship. 121
Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence
you came?

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

Val. And how do yours?

I left them all in health. | I must unto the road, to disembark
Val. How does your lady, and how thrives Some necessaries that I needs must use,
your love?
And then I'll presently attend you.
Val. Will you make haste?
Pro. I will.
Even as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
Is it mine eye, or Valentinus' 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 dote 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 my reason's light;
But 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.

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


Val. Ay, Proteus, 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,
With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;
For in revenge of my contempt of love,
Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes,
And made them watchers of mine own heart's


O gentle Proteus! 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 can I break iny 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 heavenly saint?
Pro. No; but she is an earthly paragon.
Val. Call her divine.
I will not flatter her.
Val. O flatter me, for love delights in praises.
Pro. When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,
And I must minister the like to you.



Val. Then speak the truth by her: if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality,
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Pro. Except my mistress.
Sweet, except not any,
Except thou wilt except against my love.
Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own?
Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too:
She shall be dignified 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 braggardism is this? Val. Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing. She is alone.


Then let her alone.

Val. Not for the world. Why, man, she is
mine 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 dote 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 jealousy.
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 of: how I must climb her window,
The ladder made of cords, and all the means
Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.
Pro. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth.






Speed. How then? Shall he marry her?
Launce. No, neither.


SCENE V.-The Same. A Street.

Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to

Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say, 'Welcome!'

Speed. Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, 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. What, are they broken?

Launce. No, they are both as whole as a fish. Speed. Why then, how stands the matter with them ?

Launce. Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her.

Speed. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me.

Speed. What thou sayest?

Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me. Speed. It stands under thee, indeed.


Launce. Why, stand-under and under stand is all one.

Speed. But tell me true, will 't be a match? Launce. Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say | nothing, it will.

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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 even that power which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury: Love bade me swear and love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting love! if thou hast 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 to exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;

But there I leave to love where I should love.
Julia I lose and Valentine I lose :

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;
If I lose them, thus find I by their loss
For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.
I to myself am dearer than a friend,
For love is still most precious in itself;
And Silvia-witness heaven that made her fair!-
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiop.
I will forget that Julia is alive,
Remembering that my love to her is dead;
And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.
I cannot now prove constant to myself
Without some treachery used to Valentine:
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 40



By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!


SCENE VII.-Verona. A Room in JULIA'S


Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And e'en in kind love I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Protens.


Luc. Alas! 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 Proteus.

Luc. Better forbear till Protens make return. Jul. O know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?

Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst 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. 20

Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Jul. The more thou damm'st it up the more
it burns.

The current that with gentle murmur glidės, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth


But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
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 have 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 40
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 show to be.

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


Jul. That fits as well as, 'Tell me, good my lord,


What compass will you wear your farthingale?' Why, even what fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta.

Lue. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd.

Luc. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,

Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,

Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on.

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

Which to requite, command me while I live.
This love of theirs myself have often seen,
Haply when they have judg'd me fast asleep,
And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid
Sir Valentine her company and my court;
But fearing less my jealous aim might err


Luc. If you think so, then stay at home and 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 hast 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 have ever kept;
And thence she cannot be convey'd away.

Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis'damean
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 discovery 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.

go not.

Jul. Nay, that I will not.

Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus 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. 70
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears
And instances of infinite of love
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men.
Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect;
But truer stars did govern Proteus' 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 heaven from earth.
Luc. Pray heaven he prove so when you come
to him!


Jul. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that

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,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it presently!
I am impatient of my tarriance.




SCENE I.--Milan. An Antechamber in the
DUKE'S Palace.

Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile:
We have some secrets to confer about.
Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?
Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would

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, 10
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 chose
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,
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.





Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? 51
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 tenour of them doth but signify
My health and happy being at your court.
Duke. Nay then, no matter: stay with me

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 a
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.
Val. I know it well, my lord; and sure, the

Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman
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 peevish, sullen,

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 hers,
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her childlike 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


Duke. There is a lady of Verona 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,


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