Array The griffin classics - William Shakespeare - Complete Collection

Val. No, believe me.

Speed. No believing you indeed, sir: but did you perceive her earnest?

Val. She gave me none, except an angry word.

Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter.

Val. That’s the letter I writ to her friend.

Speed. And that letter hath she deliver’d, and there an end.

Val. I would it were no worse.

Speed. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well:

“For often have you writ to her; and she in modesty,

Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;

Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover,

Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.”

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.

Val. I have din’d.

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourish’d by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress—be mov’d, be mov’d.

Exeunt.

¶

Enter Proteus, 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.

Jul.

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Pro.

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.

Pan.

Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.

Pro.

Go; I come, I come.

Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.

Exeunt.

¶

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 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- natur’d 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 pibble 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. 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 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 shipp’d, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? why weep’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.

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 mouth?

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.

Launce. Sir—call me what thou dar’st.

Pan. Wilt thou go?

Launce. Well, I will go.

Exeunt.

¶

Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio, 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 knock’d him.

[Exit.]

Sil. Servant, you are sad.

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Thu. Seem you that you are not?

Val. Happ’ly I do.

Thu. So do counterfeits.

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 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 color?

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

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?

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 father.

[Enter] Duke.

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?