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Pro. Why then let her alone.
Val. Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having fuch a jewel, As twenty feas, if all their fand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou feeft me doat upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his poffeffions are fo huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after; For love, thou know'ft, is full of jealoufie. Pro. But fhe loves you?
Val. Ay, and we are betroth'd; nay more, our marriage, With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determin'd of; how I muft climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. Good Protheus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. Pro. Go on before; I fhall enquire you forth. I muft unto the road, to disembark Some neceffaries that I needs must use; And then I'll presently attend upon you. Val. Will you make hafte? Pro. I will.
Ev'n as one heat another heat expels,
How fhall I doat on her with more advice,
SCENE VIII. Enter Speed and Launce. Speed. Launce, by mine honefty, welcome to Milan. Laun. Forfwear not thyfelf, fweet youth; for I am not welcome: I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hang'd, nor never welcome to a place 'till fome certain fhot be paid, and the hoftefs fay welcome.
Speed. Come on, you mad-cap; I'll to the alehouse with you presently, where, for one fhot of five-pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, Sirrah, how did thy mafter part with madam Julia?
Laun. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very fairly in jeft.
Speed. But fhall fhe marry him?
Speed. How then? fhall he marry her?
Speed. What, are they broken?
Laun. No, they are both as whole as a fish.
Speed. Why then how stands the matter with them? Laun. Marry, thus; when it ftands well with him, ftands well with her*.
Speed. But tell me true, will't be a match?
Laun. Afk my dog: if he fay ay, it will; if he fay no, it will; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will,
· it ftands well with her.
Speed. What an afs art thou? I understand thee not. L. What a block art thou, that thou eauft not? My staff understands me.
Speed. What thou fay'st?
Laun. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but leen and my ftaf understands me.
Speed. It stands under thee indeed.
Laun. Why, ftand under, and understand, is all one.
Speed. But tell me true, &c.
Speed. The conclufion is then, that it will. Layn. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me, but by a parable.
Speed. 'Tis well that I get it fo; but, Launce, how fay'st thou that my mafter is become a notable lover? Laun. I never knew him otherwise.
Speed. Than how?
Laun. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. Speed. Why, thou whorefon afs, thou mistak'ft me. Laun. Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy mafter. Speed. I tell thee, my mafter is become a hot lover. Laun. Why, I tell thee, I care not tho' he burn himfelf in love: If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse, fo; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Chriftian.
Laun. Because thou haft not so much charity in thee as to go to the alehoufe with a Chriftian: wilt thou go? Speed. At thy fervice.
SCENE IX. Enter Protheus folus.
If I lose them, this find I by their lofs,
Luc. Alas, the way is wearifome and long.
Luc. Better forbear 'till Protheus make return.
By longing for that food fo long a time.
Jul. The more thou damm'ft it up, the more it burns; The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'ft, being ftopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair courfe is not hindered,
He makes fweet mufick with th' enamel'd ftones,
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage:
Luc. But in what habit will you go along?
Luc. Why then your ladyship muft cut your hair.
Luc. What fashion, Madam, fhall I make your breeches? Jul. That fits as well, as tell me, good my lord, What compafs will you wear your farthingale? Why, even what fashion thou beft lik'ft, Lucetta.
Luc. You must needs have them with a cod-piece, Madam. Jul. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd. Luc. A round hofe, Madam, now's not worth a pin, Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on.