The Two Gentlemen of Verona

SCENE II. Verona. JULIA'S house

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA

  PROTEUS. Have patience, gentle Julia.  JULIA. I must, where is no remedy.  PROTEUS. When possibly I can, I will return.  JULIA. If you turn not, you will return the sooner.    Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.[Giving a ring]  PROTEUS. Why, then, we'll make exchange. Here, take you this.  JULIA. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.  PROTEUS. Here is my hand for my true constancy;    And when that hour o'erslips 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.    Julia, farewell! Exit JULIA    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

  PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.  PROTEUS. Go; I come, I come.    Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. Exeunt

SCENE III. Verona. A street

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog

  LAUNCE. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; allthe    kind 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 wringingher    hands, and all our house in a great perplexity; yet did notthis    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 wouldhave    wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam having noeyes,    look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll showyou    the manner of it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoeis    my father; no, no, left shoe is my mother; nay, that cannotbe 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 mysister,    for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as awand;    this hat is Nan our maid; I am the dog; no, the dog ishimself,    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 shouldnot    the shoe speak a word for weeping; now should I kiss myfather;    well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother. O that she 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 mysister;    mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds nota    tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my    tears.

Enter PANTHINO

  PANTHINO. Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy master is shipp'd,and    thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? Whyweep'st    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.  PANTHINO. What's the unkindest tide?  LAUNCE. Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.  PANTHINO. Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, inlosing    the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, losethy    master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in    losing thy service- Why dost thou stop my mouth?  LAUNCE. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.  PANTHINO. Where should I lose my tongue?  LAUNCE. In thy tale.  PANTHINO. 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 amable    to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I coulddrive    the boat with my sighs.  PANTHINO. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.  LAUNCE. Sir, call me what thou dar'st.  PANTHINO. Will thou go?  LAUNCE. Well, I will go. Exeunt

SCENE IV. Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED

  SILVIA. Servant!  VALENTINE. Mistress?  SPEED. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.  VALENTINE. Ay, boy, it's for love.  SPEED. Not of you.  VALENTINE. Of my mistress, then.  SPEED. 'Twere good you knock'd him. Exit  SILVIA. Servant, you are sad.  VALENTINE. Indeed, madam, I seem so.  THURIO. Seem you that you are not?  VALENTINE. Haply I do.  THURIO. So do counterfeits.  VALENTINE. So do you.  THURIO. What seem I that I am not?  VALENTINE. Wise.  THURIO. What instance of the contrary?  VALENTINE. Your folly.  THURIO. And how quote you my folly?  VALENTINE. I quote it in your jerkin.  THURIO. My jerkin is a doublet.  VALENTINE. Well, then, I'll double your folly.  THURIO. How?  SILVIA. What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change colour?  VALENTINE. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.  THURIO. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live inyour    air.  VALENTINE. You have said, sir.  THURIO. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.  VALENTINE. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.  SILVIA. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shotoff.  VALENTINE. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.  SILVIA. Who is that, servant?  VALENTINE. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. SirThurio    borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends whathe    borrows kindly in your company.  THURIO. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall makeyour    wit bankrupt.  VALENTINE. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words,    and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; forit    appears by their bare liveries that they live by your barewords.

Enter DUKE

  SILVIA. No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.  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?  VALENTINE. My lord, I will be thankful    To any happy messenger from thence.  DUKE. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?  VALENTINE. 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?  VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves    The honour and regard of such a father.  DUKE. You know him well?  VALENTINE. 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 unmellowed, 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 feature 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 awhile.    I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.  VALENTINE. 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 will send him hither to you presently. Exit DUKE  VALENTINE. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship    Had come along with me but that his mistresss    Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.  SILVIA. Belike that now she hath enfranchis'd them    Upon some other pawn for fealty.  VALENTINE. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.  SILVIA. Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind,    How could he see his way to seek out you?  VALENTINE. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.  THURIO. They say that Love hath not an eye at all.  VALENTINE. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself;    Upon a homely object Love can wink. Exit THURIO

Enter PROTEUS

  SILVIA. Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman.  VALENTINE. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you    Confirm his welcome with some special favour.  SILVIA. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,    If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.  VALENTINE. Mistress, it is; sweet lady, entertain him    To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.  SILVIA. Too low a mistress for so high a servant.  PROTEUS. Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant    To have a look of such a worthy mistress.  VALENTINE. Leave off discourse of disability;    Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.  PROTEUS. My duty will I boast of, nothing else.  SILVIA. And duty never yet did want his meed.    Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.  PROTEUS. I'll die on him that says so but yourself.  SILVIA. That you are welcome?  PROTEUS. That you are worthless.

Re-enter THURIO

  THURIO. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.  SILVIA. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,    Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome.    I'll leave you to confer of home affairs;    When you have done we look to hear from you.  PROTEUS. We'll both attend upon your ladyship.Exeunt SILVIA and THURIO  VALENTINE. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?  PROTEUS. Your friends are well, and have them much commended.  VALENTINE. And how do yours?  PROTEUS. I left them all in health.  VALENTINE. How does your lady, and how thrives your love?  PROTEUS. My tales of love were wont to weary you;    I know you joy not in a love-discourse.  VALENTINE. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now;    I have done penance for contemning Love,    Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me    With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,    With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs;    For, in revenge of my contempt of love,    Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes    And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.    O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,    And hath so humbled me as I confess    There is no woe to his correction,    Nor to his service no such joy on earth.    Now no discourse, except it be of love;    Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,    Upon the very naked name of love.  PROTEUS. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.    Was this the idol that you worship so?  VALENTINE. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?  PROTEUS. No; but she is an earthly paragon.  VALENTINE. Call her divine.  PROTEUS. I will not flatter her.  VALENTINE. O, flatter me; for love delights in praises!  PROTEUS. When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,    And I must minister the like to you.  VALENTINE. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,    Yet let her be a principality,    Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.  PROTEUS. Except my mistress.  VALENTINE. Sweet, except not any;    Except thou wilt except against my love.  PROTEUS. Have I not reason to prefer mine own?  VALENTINE. And I will help thee to prefer her too:    She shall be dignified with this high honour-    To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth    Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss    And, of so great a favour growing proud,    Disdain to root the summer-swelling flow'r    And make rough winter everlastingly.  PROTEUS. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?  VALENTINE. Pardon me, Proteus; all I can is nothing    To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;    She is alone.  PROTEUS. Then let her alone.  VALENTINE. Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own;    And I as rich in having such a jewel    As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,    The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.    Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,    Because thou seest me dote upon my love.    My foolish rival, that her father likes    Only for his possessions are so huge,    Is gone with her along; and I must after,    For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.  PROTEUS. But she loves you?  VALENTINE. Ay, and we are betroth'd; nay more, ourmarriage-hour,    With all the cunning manner of our flight,    Determin'd of- how I must climb her window,    The ladder made of cords, and all the means    Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.    Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,    In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.  PROTEUS. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth;    I must unto the road to disembark    Some necessaries that I needs must use;    And then I'll presently attend you.  VALENTINE. Will you make haste?  PROTEUS. I will. Exit VALENTINE    Even as one heat another heat expels    Or as one nail by strength drives out another,    So the remembrance of my former love    Is by a newer object quite forgotten.    Is it my mind, or Valentinus' praise,    Her true perfection, or my false transgression,    That makes me reasonless to reason thus?    She is fair; and so is Julia that I love-    That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;    Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire    Bears no impression of the thing it was.    Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,    And that I love him not as I was wont.    O! but I love his lady too too much,    And that's the reason I love him so little.    How shall I dote on her with more advice    That thus without advice begin to love her!    'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,    And that hath dazzled my reason's light;    But when I look on her perfections,    There is no reason but I shall be blind.    If I can check my erring love, I will;    If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. Exit

SCENE V. Milan. A street

Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally

  SPEED. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua.  LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am notwelcome. I    reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he behang'd,    nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid,and    the hostess say 'Welcome!'  SPEED. Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you    presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have    five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master partwith    Madam Julia?  LAUNCE. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very    fairly in jest.  SPEED. But shall she marry him?  LAUNCE. No.  SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her?  LAUNCE. No, neither.  SPEED. What, are they broken?  LAUNCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish.  SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them?  LAUNCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it standswell    with her.  SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.  LAUNCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff    understands me.  SPEED. What thou say'st?  LAUNCE. Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my    staff understands me.  SPEED. It stands under thee, indeed.  LAUNCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.  SPEED. But tell me true, will't be a match?  LAUNCE. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, itwill;    if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.  SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will.  LAUNCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a    parable.  SPEED. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou    that my master is become a notable lover?  LAUNCE. I never knew him otherwise.  SPEED. Than how?  LAUNCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.  SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me.  LAUNCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master.  SPEED. I tell thee my master is become a hot lover.  LAUNCE. Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself inlove.    If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an    Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.  SPEED. Why?  LAUNCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to goto    the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?  SPEED. At thy service. Exeunt

SCENE VI. Milan. The DUKE's palace

Enter PROTEUS

  PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;    To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;    To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;    And ev'n that pow'r which gave me first my oath    Provokes me to this threefold perjury:    Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.    O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd,    Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!    At first I did adore a twinkling star,    But now I worship a celestial sun.    Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;    And he wants wit that wants resolved will    To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better.    Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad    Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd    With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths!    I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;    But there I leave to love where I should love.    Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose;    If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;    If I lose them, thus find I by their loss:    For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.    I to myself am dearer than a friend;    For love is still most precious in itself;    And Silvia- witness heaven, that made her fair! -    Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.    I will forget that Julia is alive,    Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead;    And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,    Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.    I cannot now prove constant to myself    Without some treachery us'd to Valentine.    This night he meaneth with a corded ladder    To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window,    Myself in counsel, his competitor.    Now presently I'll give her father notice    Of their disguising and pretended flight,    Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine,    For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;    But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross    By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.    Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,    As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. Exit

SCENE VII. Verona. JULIA'S house

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA

  JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;    And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,    Who art the table wherein all my thoughts    Are visibly character'd and engrav'd,    To lesson me and tell me some good mean    How, with my honour, I may undertake    A journey to my loving Proteus.  LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long!  JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary    To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;    Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,    And when the flight is made to one so dear,    Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.  LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return.  JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?    Pity the dearth that I have pined in    By longing for that food so long a time.    Didst thou but know the inly touch of love.    Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow    As seek to quench the fire of love with words.  LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,    But qualify the fire's extreme rage,    Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.  JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns.    The current that with gentle murmur glides,    Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;    But when his fair course is not hindered,    He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,    Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge    He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;    And so by many winding nooks he strays,    With willing sport, to the wild ocean.    Then let me go, and hinder not my course.    I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,    And make a pastime of each weary step,    Till the last step have brought me to my love;    And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,    A blessed soul doth in Elysium.  LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along?  JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent    The loose encounters of lascivious men;    Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds    As may beseem some well-reputed page.  LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.  JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings    With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots-    To be fantastic may become a youth    Of greater time than I shall show to be.  LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?  JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,    What compass will you wear your farthingale.'    Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.  LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.  JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.  LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,    Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.  JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have    What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.    But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me    For undertaking so unstaid a journey?    I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.  LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not.  JULIA. Nay, that I will not.  LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go.    If Proteus like your journey when you come,    No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.    I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal.  JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:    A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,    And instances of infinite of love,    Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.  LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men.  JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect!    But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth;    His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,    His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,    His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,    His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.  LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.  JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong    To bear a hard opinion of his truth;    Only deserve my love by loving him.    And presently go with me to my chamber,    To take a note of what I stand in need of    To furnish me upon my longing journey.    All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,    My goods, my lands, my reputation;    Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.    Come, answer not, but to it presently;    I am impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt

ACT III. SCENE I. Milan. The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS

  DUKE. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;    We have some secrets to confer about. Exit THURIO    Now tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?  PROTEUS. My gracious lord, that which I would discover    The law of friendship bids me to conceal;    But, when I call to mind your gracious favours    Done to me, undeserving as I am,    My duty pricks me on to utter that    Which else no worldly good should draw from me.    Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,    This night intends to steal away your daughter;    Myself am one made privy to the plot.    I know you have determin'd to bestow her    On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;    And should she thus be stol'n away from you,    It would be much vexation to your age.    Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose    To cross my friend in his intended drift    Than, by concealing it, heap on your head    A pack of sorrows which would press you down,    Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.  DUKE. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,    Which to requite, command me while I live.    This love of theirs myself have often seen,    Haply when they have judg'd me fast asleep,    And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid    Sir Valentine her company and my court;    But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err    And so, unworthily, disgrace the man,    A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,    I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find    That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me.    And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,    Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,    I nightly lodge her in an upper tow'r,    The key whereof myself have ever kept;    And thence she cannot be convey'd away.  PROTEUS. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean    How he her chamber window will ascend    And with a corded ladder fetch her down;    For which the youthful lover now is gone,    And this way comes he with it presently;    Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.    But, good my lord, do it so cunningly    That my discovery be not aimed at;    For love of you, not hate unto my friend,    Hath made me publisher of this pretence.  DUKE. Upon mine honour, he shall never know    That I had any light from thee of this.  PROTEUS. Adieu, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming. Exit

Enter VALENTINE

  DUKE. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?  VALENTINE. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger    That stays to bear my letters to my friends,    And I am going to deliver them.  DUKE. Be they of much import?  VALENTINE. The tenour of them doth but signify    My health and happy being at your court.  DUKE. Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;    I am to break with thee of some affairs    That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.    'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought    To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.  VALENTINE. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the match    Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman    Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities    Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.    Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?  DUKE. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,    Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;    Neither regarding that she is my child    Nor fearing me as if I were her father;    And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,    Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;    And, where I thought the remnant of mine age    Should have been cherish'd by her childlike duty,    I now am full resolv'd to take a wife    And turn her out to who will take her in.    Then let her beauty be her wedding-dow'r;    For me and my possessions she esteems not.  VALENTINE. What would your Grace have me to do in this?  DUKE. There is a lady, in Verona here,    Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy,    And nought esteems my aged eloquence.    Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor-    For long agone I have forgot to court;    Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd-    How and which way I may bestow myself    To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.  VALENTINE. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:    Dumb jewels often in their silent kind    More than quick words do move a woman's mind.  DUKE. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.  VALENTINE. 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, 'tis not in hate of you,    But rather to beget more love in you;    If she do chide, 'tis 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.  VALENTINE. 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.  VALENTINE. 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.  VALENTINE. Why then a ladder, quaintly made of cords,    To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks,    Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r,    So bold Leander would adventure it.  DUKE. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,    Advise me where I may have such a ladder.  VALENTINE. When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that.  DUKE. This very night; for Love is like a child,    That longs for everything that he can come by.  VALENTINE. 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?  VALENTINE. 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?  VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord.  DUKE. Then let me see thy cloak.    I'll get me one of such another length.  VALENTINE. 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!    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 blest them,        Because myself do want my servants' 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, Phaethon- 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.    Be gone; I will not hear thy vain excuse,    But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence. Exit  VALENTINE. 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?    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