Array The griffin classics - William Shakespeare - Complete Collection

Duke.

But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

Val.

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, what ever 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.

Val.

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.

Val.

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.

Val.

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.

Val.

When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.

Duke.

This very night; for Love is like a child,

That longs for every thing that he can come by.

Val.

By seven a’ 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?

Val.

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?

Val.

Ay, my good lord.

Duke.

Then let me see thy cloak—

I’ll get me one of such another length.

Val.

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 harbor 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 harbor 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, Phaëton (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, overweening 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 favors

Which (all too much) I have bestowed 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.]

Val.

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.

Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

Launce. Soho, soho!

Pro. What seest thou?

Launce. Him we go to find. There’s not a hair on ’s head but ’tis a Valentine.

Pro. Valentine?

Val. No.

Pro. Who then? his spirit?

Val. Neither.

Pro. What then?

Val. Nothing.

Launce. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Pro. Who wouldst thou strike?

Launce. Nothing.

Pro. Villain, forbear.

Launce. Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing. I pray you—

Pro.

Sirrah, I say forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

Val.

My ears are stopp’d and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possess’d them.

Pro.

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.

Val. Is Silvia dead?

Pro. No, Valentine.

Val.

No Valentine indeed, for sacred Silvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

Pro. No, Valentine.

Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news?

Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanish’d.

Pro.

That thou art banish’d—O, that’s the news!—

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val.

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro.

Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom

(Which unrevers’d stands in effectual force)

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears;

Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d,

With them, upon her knees, her humble self,

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them

As if but now they waxed pale for woe:

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chaf’d him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her,

With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val.

No more; unless the next word that thou speak’st

Have some malignant power upon my life;

If so—I pray thee breathe it in mine ear,

As ending anthem of my endless dolor.

Pro.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament’st.