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Sc. I

All this I speak in print,1 for in print I found it.—Why muse you, Sir? 'tis dinner-time.

VAL. I have dined.

SPEED. Ay, but hearken, Sir: though the cameleon
Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished
by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not
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


[giving another.

JUL. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
PRO. Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'er-slips 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.


[Exit JULIA.

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


PAN. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.



Go; I come:

Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb! [exeunt.

1 precisely.

SCENE III. The Same. A Street.

Enter LAUNCE, leading a Dog.

LAUNCE. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind1 of the Launces have this very fault. I have receiv'd 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 crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her 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 the shoe 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.



PAN. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's the

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matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you '11 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.

PAN. What's the unkindest tide?


LAUNCE. Why, he that's tied here: Crab, my dog.
PAN. 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?

LAUNCE. For fear thou should'st lose thy tongue.
PAN. Where should I lose my tongue?

LAUNCE. In thy tale.

PAN. In my 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. PAN. Come, come away, man: I was sent to call thee. LAUNCE. Sir, call me what thou dar'st.

PAN. Wilt thou go?

LAUNCE. Well, I will go.


SCENE IV. Milan. A Room in the DUKE's Palace.


SIL. Servant,

VAL. Mistress?

SPEED. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

VAL. Ay, boy, it's for love.

SPEED. Not of


VAL. Of my Mistress, then.

SPEED. 'Twere good you knock'd him.

SIL. Servant, you are sad.

VAL. Indeed, Madam, I seem so.

THU. Seem you that you are not?

VAL. Hap❜ly I do.

THU. So do counterfeits.


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SIL. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?
VAL. Give him leave, Madam; he is a kind of cameleon.


THU. That hath more mind to feed on your 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.

Enter DUKE.

DUKE. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.

Sir Valentine, your father is in good health:

What say you to a letter from your friends

Of much good news?

VAL. My Lord, I will be thankful

To any happy messenger from thence.

DUKE. Know you Don Antonio, your countryman?


1 mark, observe.

Sc. IV

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 knew 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;
And, in a word (for far behind his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow),
He is complete, in feature1 and in mind,
With all good grace, to grace a gentleman.
DUKE. Beshrew me, Sir, but, if he make this good,
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 a while :
I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.
VAL. Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.
DUKE. Welcome him, then, according to his worth:
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.
[Exit DUKE.
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 blind,
How could he see his way to seek out you?

1 form, figure, person.



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