Act III, Scene i:
Milan. An anteroom in 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 tower,

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-dower;

For me and my possessions she esteems not.

VALENTINE:

What would your Grace have me to do in this?

DUKE:

There is a lady of 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.

[Pulls open VALENTINE'S cloak.]

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.

'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.]

PROTEUS:

Run, boy; run, run, seek him out.

LAUNCE:

Soho! soho!

PROTEUS:

What seest thou?

LAUNCE:

Him we go to find: there's not a hair on 's head but 'tis a

Valentine.

PROTEUS:

Valentine?

VALENTINE:

No.

PROTEUS:

Who then? his spirit?

VALENTINE:

Neither.

PROTEUS:

What then?

VALENTINE:

Nothing.

LAUNCE:

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

PROTEUS:

Who wouldst thou strike?

LAUNCE:

Nothing.

PROTEUS:

Villain, forbear.

LAUNCE:

Why, sir, I'll strike nothing. I pray you,—

PROTEUS:

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

VALENTINE:

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

So much of bad already hath possess'd them.

PROTEUS:

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.

VALENTINE:

Is Silvia dead?

PROTEUS:

No, Valentine.

VALENTINE:

No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

PROTEUS:

No, Valentine.

VALENTINE:

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.

What is your news?

LAUNCE:

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

PROTEUS:

That thou art banished, O, that's the news,

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

VALENTINE:

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

PROTEUS:

Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd 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.

VALENTINE:

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 dolour.

PROTEUS:

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament'st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

Here if thou stay thou canst not see thy love;

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,

Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate:

Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate;

And, ere I part with thee, confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.

As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself,

Regard thy danger, and along with me!

VALENTINE:

I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

PROTEUS:

Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.

VALENTINE:

O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!

[Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS.]

LAUNCE:

I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think

my master is a kind of a knave; but that's all one if he be but

one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am

in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor

who 'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not

tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for

she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's

maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a

water-spaniel—which is much in a bare Christian.[Pulling out apaper.]

Here is the catelog of her condition. 'Inprimis: She

can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse

cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a

jade. 'Item: She can milk.' Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid

with clean hands.

[Enter SPEED.]

SPEED:

How now, Signior Launce! What news with your mastership?

LAUNCE:

With my master's ship? Why, it is at sea.

SPEED:

Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news,

then, in your paper?

LAUNCE:

The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

SPEED:

Why, man? how black?

LAUNCE:

Why, as black as ink.

SPEED:

Let me read them.

LAUNCE:

Fie on thee, jolthead! thou canst not read.

SPEED:

Thou liest; I can.

LAUNCE:

I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

SPEED:

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

LAUNCE:

O, illiterate loiterer! It was the son of thy grandmother.

This proves that thou canst not read.

SPEED:

Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.

LAUNCE:

There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed!

SPEED:

'Inprimis, She can milk.'

LAUNCE:

Ay, that she can.

SPEED:

'Item, She brews good ale.'

LAUNCE:

And thereof comes the proverb, 'Blessing of your heart, you

brew good ale.'

SPEED:

'Item, She can sew.'

LAUNCE:

That's as much as to say 'Can she so?'

SPEED:

'Item, She can knit.'

LAUNCE:

What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can

knit him a stock?

SPEED:

'Item, She can wash and scour.'

LAUNCE:

A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured.

SPEED:

'Item, She can spin.'

LAUNCE:

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for

her living.

SPEED:

'Item, She hath many nameless virtues.'

LAUNCE:

That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; that indeed

know not their fathers, and therefore have no names.

SPEED:

'Here follow her vices.'

LAUNCE:

Close at the heels of her virtues.

SPEED:

'Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her

breath.'

LAUNCE:

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast.

Read on.

SPEED:

'Item, She hath a sweet mouth.'

LAUNCE:

That makes amends for her sour breath.

SPEED:

'Item, She doth talk in her sleep.'

LAUNCE:

It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

SPEED:

'Item, She is slow in words.'

LAUNCE:

O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow

in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray thee, out with't; and

place it for her chief virtue.

SPEED:

'Item, She is proud.'

LAUNCE:

Out with that too: it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en

from her.

SPEED:

'Item, She hath no teeth.'

LAUNCE:

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

SPEED:

'Item, She is curst.'

LAUNCE:

Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

SPEED:

'Item, She will often praise her liquor.'

LAUNCE:

If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will;

for good things should be praised.

SPEED:

'Item, She is too liberal.'

LAUNCE:

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she is slow

of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut. Now of

another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

SPEED:

'Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults

than hairs, and more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE:

Stop there; I'll have her; she was mine, and not mine,

twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.

SPEED:

'Item, She hath more hair than wit'—

LAUNCE:

More hair than wit it may be; I'll prove it: the cover of

the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt;

the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the

greater hides the less. What's next?

SPEED:

'And more faults than hairs.'—

LAUNCE:

That's monstrous! O, that that were out!

SPEED:

'And more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE:

Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have

her; an if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,—

SPEED:

What then?

LAUNCE:

Why, then will I tell thee,—that thy master stays for thee

at the North-gate.

SPEED:

For me?

LAUNCE:

For thee! ay, who art thou? He hath stay'd for a better man

than thee.

SPEED:

And must I go to him?

LAUNCE:

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that

going will scarce serve the turn.

SPEED:

Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters!

[Exit.]

LAUNCE:

Now will he be swing'd for reading my letter. An unmannerly

slave that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to

rejoice in the boy's correction.

[Exit.]