Milan. The Court of the DUKE'S Palace. |
| |
| Enter PROTEUS. |
| Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine, |
| And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. |
| Under the colour of commending him, |
| I have access my own love to prefer: |
| But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, |
| To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. |
| When I protest true loyalty to her, |
| She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; |
| When to her beauty I commend my vows, |
| She bids me think how I have been forsworn |
| In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd: |
| And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, |
| The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, |
| Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, |
| The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. |
| But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window, |
| And give some evening music to her ear. |
| |
| Enter THURIO, and Musicians. |
| Thu. How now, Sir Proteus! are you crept before us? |
| Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love |
| Will creep in service where it cannot go. |
| Thu. Ay; but I hope, sir, that you love not here. |
| Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. |
| Thu. Who? Silvia? |
| Pro. Ay, Silvia, for your sake. |
| Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, |
| Let's tune, and to it lustily a while. |
| |
| Enter Host and JULIA behind. JULIA in boy's clothes. |
| Host. Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly: I pray you, why is it? |
| Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. |
| Host. Come, we'll have you merry. I'll bring you where you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for. |
| Jul. But shall I hear him speak? |
| Host. Ay, that you shall. |
| Jul. That will be music. [Music plays. |
| Host. Hark! hark! |
| Jul. Is he among these? |
| Host. Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em. |
| |
| SONG. | | Who is Silvia? what is she? |
| That all our swains commend her? |
| Holy, fair, and wise is she; |
| The heaven such grace did lend her, |
| That she might admired be. |
| |
| Is she kind as she is fair? |
| For beauty lives with kindness: |
| Love doth to her eyes repair, |
| To help him of his blindness; |
| And, being help'd, inhabits there. |
| |
| Then to Silvia let us sing, |
| That Silvia is excelling; |
| She excels each mortal thing |
| Upon the dull earth dwelling; |
| To her let us garlands bring. |
|
| Host. How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not. |
| Jul. You mistake; the musician likes me not. |
| Host. Why, my pretty youth? |
| Jul. He plays false, father. |
| Host. How? out of tune on the strings? |
| Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. |
| Host. You have a quick ear. |
| Jul. Ay; I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. |
| Host. I perceive you delight not in music. |
| Jul. Not a whit,—when it jars so. |
| Host. Hark! what fine change is in the music! |
| Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. |
| Host. You would have them always play but one thing? |
| Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. |
| But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on |
| Often resort unto this gentlewoman? |
| Host. I will tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her out of all nick. |
| Jul. Where is Launce? |
| Host. Gone to seek his dog; which, to-morrow, by his master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady. |
| Jul. Peace! stand aside: the company parts. |
| Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead |
| That you shall say my cunning drift excels. |
| Thu. Where meet we? |
| Pro. At Saint Gregory's well. |
| Thu. Farewell. [Exeunt THURIO and Musicians. |
| |
| Enter SILVIA above, at her window. |
| Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. |
| Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. |
| Who is that that spake? |
| Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth, |
| You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. |
| Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. |
| Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. |
| Sil. What is your will? |
| Pro. That I may compass yours. |
| Sil. You have your wish; my will is even this: |
| That presently you hie you home to bed. |
| Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man! |
| Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, |
| To be seduced by thy flattery, |
| That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows? |
| Return, return, and make thy love amends. |
| For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, |
| I am so far from granting thy request |
| That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, |
| And by and by intend to chide myself |
| Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. |
| Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; |
| But she is dead. |
| Jul. [Aside.] 'Twere false, if I should speak it; |
| For I am sure she is not buried. |
| Sil. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend |
| Survives; to whom, thyself art witness |
| I am betroth'd: and art thou not asham'd |
| To wrong him with thy importunacy? |
| Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. |
| Sil. And so suppose am I; for in his grave, |
| Assure thyself my love is buried. |
| Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. |
| Sil. Go to thy lady's grave and call hers thence; |
| Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. |
| Jul. [Aside.] He heard not that. |
| Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, |
| Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, |
| The picture that is hanging in your chamber: |
| To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep; |
| For since the substance of your perfect self |
| Is else devoted, I am but a shadow, |
| And to your shadow will I make true love. |
| Jul. [Aside.] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it, |
| And make it but a shadow, as I am. |
| Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; |
| But, since your falsehood shall become you well |
| To worship shadows and adore false shapes, |
| Send to me in the morning and I'll send it. |
| And so, good rest. |
| Pro. As wretches have o'er night |
| That wait for execution in the morn. [Exeunt PROTEUS, and SILVIA, above. |
| Jul. Host, will you go? |
| Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. |
| Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? |
| Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day. |
| Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night |
| That e'er I watch'd and the most heaviest. [Exeunt. |
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