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What, gone without a word?

Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter Panthino.

Pan. 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.

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 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: ΙΟ 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,-Oh! 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
Now come I to my
weeps on.
mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood 30
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.

Enter Panthino.

Pan. 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

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

Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.
Pan. Where should I lose my tongue?
Launce. In thy tale.

Pan. 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.


Pan. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 60 Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest.

Pan. Wilt thou go?

Launce. Well, I will go.


Scene IV.

Milan. The Duke's palace.

Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed.

Sil. Servant!

Val. Mistress?

Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

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

Speed. Not of you.

Val. Of my mistress, then.

Speed. 'Twere good you knocked him.
Sil. Servant, you are sad.

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so.
Thu. Seem you that you are not?
Val. Haply I do.



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Val. Your folly.

Thu. And how quote you my folly?

Val. I quote it in your jerkin.

Thu. My jerkin is a doublet.

Val. Well, then, I'll double your folly.
Thu. How?

Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change


Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of


Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood
than live in your

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

Enter Duke.

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 ye Don Antonio, your countryman ?
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 conversed 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 judgement ripe;

And, in a word, for far behind his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow,
He is complete in feature and in mind




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