Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. Val. A woman sometime scorns what best contents

her.

Send her another; never give her o'er,

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
If she do frown, 't is not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you:
If she do chide, 't is not to have you gone,
For why, the fools are mad, if left alone.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
For "get you gone," she doth not mean, "away."
Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces;
Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

Duke. But she I mean is promis'd by her friends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,

And kept severely from resort of men,

That no man hath access by day to her.

Val. Why, then I would resort to her by night. Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night.

Val. What lets, but one may enter at her window? Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life.

Val. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,
Would serve to scale another Hero's tower,

So bold Leander would adventure it.

Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

Val. When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that. Duke. This very night; for love is like a child, That longs for every thing that he can come by. Val. By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder. Duke. But hark thee; I will go to her alone. How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length.

Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? Val. Ay, my good lord.

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!

[Ladder and letter fall out.1

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 servant's 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, Phaeton, (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
Which, 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 heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever bore my daughter, or thyself.

Begone: I will not hear thy vain excuse;

But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence.

[Exit DUKE.

Val. And why not death, rather than living torment?

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?

1 This direction is not in f. e.

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be, to think that she is by,
And 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 the 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 influence
Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.
I fly 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 and LAUNCE.

Pro. Run, boy; run, run, and seek him out.
Launce. So-ho! so-ho!

Pro. What seest thou?

Launce. Him we go to find: there's not a hair on 's head, but 't is a Valentine.

Pro. Valentine?

Val. No.

Pro. Who then? his spirit?

Val. Neither.

Pro. What then?

Val. Nothing.

Launce. Can nothing speak? master, shall I strike ? Pro. Whom wouldst thou strike?

Launce. Nothing.

Pro. Villain, forbear.

Launce. 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. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable, 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?

Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are

vanish'd.

Pro. That thou art banish'd: O! that is 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 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 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'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so, When she for thy 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 speak'st

Have some malignant power upon my life:

If so, I pray thee, breathe it in my ear,

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lamentest. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, And manage it against despairing 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, I'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. Launce. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think, my master is a kind of a knave; 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 't is I love; and yet 't is a woman but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 't is a milkmaid; yet 't is not a maid, for she hath had gossips: yet 't is a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a waterspaniel, 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?

Launce. 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?

Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st. Speed. Why, man, how black?

Launce. Why, as black as ink.

Speed. Let me read them.

Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not

read.

Speed. Thou liest, I can.

Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Launce. 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. Launce. There, and saint Nicholas be thy speed! Speed. Imprimis, "She can milk."

Launce. Ay, that she can.

Speed. Item, "She brews good ale."