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

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 reply;

Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, 170

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. Enter PROTEUS and JULIA.

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. Exit JULIA.

What! gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak ; For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.


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

SCENE III.-The Same. A Street.

hands, and all our house in a 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.



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.

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

Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest.



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Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog. Launce. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping: all the kind of the Launces have 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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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.

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 blood than live in your air.

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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?

My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.
Duke. Know you Don Antonio, your country-

Val. Ay, my good lord; I know the gentleman
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 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. 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 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

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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Confirm his welcome with some special favour.
Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome

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.

Serv. 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?

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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.

I must unto the road, to disembark
Some necessaries that I needs must use,
And then I'll presently attend you.
Val. Will you make haste?
Pro. I will.



Erit VALENTINE. 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.

SCENE V.-The Same. A Street.



Enter SPEED and LAUNce. Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan !

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. 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. 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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Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.


Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.

Speed. 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 to the alehouse, 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 ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

Speed. At thy service.



SCENE VI.- The Same. An Apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.


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 Proteus.


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,

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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


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

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.

Exit THURIO. Now, tell me, Proteus, 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, 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. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,

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
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. Exit.


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 awhile.

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

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 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 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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