ACT II 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 like your Mistress; be moved, be moved. [exeunt. SCENE II. Verona. A Room in JULIA'S House. Enter PROTEUS and JULIA. 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 this. [giving another. JUL. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. [Exit JULIA. Julia, farewell! What, gone without a word ? 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;-0, 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. 2 Enter PANTHION. 32 PAN. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. 1 stock. What's the • wild. ACT II matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you'll 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. 40 LAUNCE. For fear thou should'st lose thy tongue. PAN. Where should I lose my tongue ? LAUNCE. In thy tale. PAN. In my tail? 49 LAUNCE. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, PAN. Come, come away, man: I was sent to call thee. PAN. Wilt thou go? LAUNCE. Well, I will go. [exeunt. SCENE IV. Milan. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace. Enter VALENTINE, SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED. VAL. So do you. THU. What seem I that I am not ? VAL. Wise. THU. What instance of the contrary? VAL. Your folly. THU. And how quote1 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 colour? VAL. Give him leave, Madam; he is a kind of cameleon. 20 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? 31 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. 42 SIL. No more, gentlemen, no more: here comes my father. Enter DUKE. DUKE. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. What say you to a letter from your friends VAL. My Lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. DUKE. Know you Don Antonio, your countryman ? 50 ACT II 1 mark, observe. VAL. Ay, my good Lord, I know the gentleman DUKE. Hath he not a son? VAL. Ay, my good Lord: a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father. VAL. I knew him as myself; for from our infancy With all good grace, to grace a gentleman. 60 70 80 [Exit DUKE. VAL. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. 1 form, figure, person. 90 |