Verona. A Room in JULIA'S House. |
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Enter JULIA and LUCETTA. |
Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me: |
And e'en 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. |
Luc. Alas! the way is wearisome and long. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. 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. |
Jul. The more thou damm'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. |
Luc. But in what habit will you go along? |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? |
Jul. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord, |
What compass will you wear your farthingale?' |
Why, even what fashion thou best lik'st, 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 hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, |
Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. |
Jul. Nay, that I will not. |
Luc. 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. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. |
Jul. 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. |
Luc. Pray heaven he prove so when you come to him! |
Jul. 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. |
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