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 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: O, 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.- Thank me for this, more than for all the favours, Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love Be gone, I will not hear thy vain excuse, But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from To die, is to be banish'd from myself; Enter Proteus and 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 On's head, but 'tis a Valentine. Pro. Valentine? Val. No. Pro. Who then? his spirit? Val. Neither. Pro. What then? Val. Nothing. Laun. Can nothing speak? master, shall I strike? Laun. Nothing. Pro. Villain, forbear. Laun. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you, Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear: friend Valentine, a word. Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath possess'd them. 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 vanish'd. Pro. That thou art banish'd, O, that's the news; From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath 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; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them, As if but now they waxed pale for wo: But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, Val. No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st, Have some malignant power upon my life: Pro. Čease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament'st. 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 knave: but that's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now, that knows me to be in love: yet 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; (1) Grief, 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. 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 then in your paper? Laun. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st. Speed. Why, man, how black? 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. Come, 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,Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale. (1) St. Nicholas presided over young scholars. |