That my mafter being fcribe, to himself fhould write the letter? Val. How now, fir? what are you reasoning with yourself? Spe. Nay, I was riming; 'tis you that have the reason. Val. To do what? Spe. To be a fpokesman from madam Silvia. Val. To whom? Spe. To yourself: why, the wooes you by a figure. Spe. By a letter, I should say. Val. Why, the hath not writ to me. Spe. What need the, when the hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jeft? Val. No, believe me. Spe. No believing you indeed, fir: But did you perceive her earnest ? Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. Spe. And that letter hath she deliver'd, and there an Spe. I'll warrant you 'tis as well: [end. For often have you writ to her; and the, in modefty, • Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply; Or fearing elfe fome meffenger that might her mind · discover, • Herself hath_taught her love himself to write unto her "Jover.-' All this I fpeak in print, for in print I found it.— Val. I have din'd. Spe. Ay, but hearken, fir; though the cameleon 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 miftrefs; be moved, be moved. [Exeunt. There is an uncommon, but no unnatural idea, in Silvia's device, of getting her lover to write for her to himself, and Speed archly infinuates an explanation. SCENE II. Verona. Room in Julia's House. Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia*. Pro. When poffibly I can, I will return. Jul. If you turn not, you will return the fooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's fake. [giving a ring. [this. Pro. Why, then we'll make exchange; here take you Jul. And feal the bargain with a holy kifs. Pro. Here is my hand for my true conftancy: And when that hour o'er-flips me in the day, Wherein I figh not, Julia, for thy fake, The next enfuing hour fome foul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness! My father ftays my coming; answer not; The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewel.-What, gone without a word? [Exit Julia. Ay, so true love fhould do: it cannot speak ; Pan. Sir Protheus, you are ftay'd for. Alas, this parting ftrikes poor lovers dumb. SCENE III. The fame. A Street. Enter Launce, with a Dog in a String. [Exeunt. Lau. 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 fon, and am going with fir Protheus to the imperial's court. I think, Crab my dog be the foureft-natur'd dog that lives : * This little scene has the complexion of Romeo and Juliet parting in the garden, after the former has killed Mercutio; we have as much of the pathos here as could be expected ; but we have had no clear idea how Protheus and Julia have made their intimacy so perfect. my mother weeping, my father wailing, my fifter crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruelhearted cur fhed one tear: he is a ftone, a very pibbleftone, and has no more pity in him than a dog; a few would have wept to have feen our parting; why, my grandame, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll fhow you the manner of it: This fhoe is my father;-no, this left shoe is my father; -no, no, this left fhoe is my mother ;-nay, that cannot be fo neither ;-yes, it is fo, it is fo; it hath the worfer fole: This fhoe, with the hole in it, is my mother; and this, my father: A vengeance on't! there 'tis: now, fir, this staff is my fifter; for, look you, she is as white as a lilly, and as fmall as a wand: this hat is Nan our maid: I am the dog;-no, the dog is himfelf, and I am the dog,-O, the dog is me, and I am myfelf; ay, fo, fo: Now come I to my father, Father, your bleffing; now fhould not the fhoe fpeak a word for weeping; now should I kifs my father; well, weeps on: now come I to my mother ;-O, that he could speak now, like a wode woman!-well, I kifs her ;-why, there 'tis ; here's my mother's breath up and down: now come I to my fifter; mark the moan fhe makes: now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but fee how I lay the duft with my tears *. Enter Panthino. he Pan. Launce! away, away, aboard; thy mafter is fhip'd, and thou art to poft after with oars: What's the matter? why weep'ft thou, man? Away, afs; you'll lofe the tide, if you tarry any longer. Lau. It is no matter, if the ty❜d were loft; for it is the unkindeft ty'd that ever any man ty❜d. Pan. What's the unkindest tide? Lau. Why, he that's ty'd here; Crab, my dog.. Launce's foliloquy has throughout a great share of pleafantry, but cannot be fuccessfully delivered, or agreeably read, without clear conception and found judgment,-The animadverfions on his dog are admirable. 23 Pan. Tut, man! I mean, thou'lt lofe the flood; and, in lofing the flood, lofe thy voyage; and, in lofing thy voyage, lose thy mafter; and, in lofing thy master, lofe thy fervice; and, in lofing thy fervice,-Why doft thou ftop my mouth? Lau. For fear thou should'st lose thy tongue. "Pan. In thy tail? « Lau. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, ❝ and the service?-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 fighs. Pan. Come, come away, man; I was fent to call thee. Lau.. Sir, call me what thou dar'ft. Pan. Wilt thou go? Lau. Well, I will go. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Milan. A Room in the Duke's Palace. Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. "Sil. Servant,— "Val. Miftrefs? [they converfe apart. "Spe. Mafter, fir Thurio frowns on you. "Val. Ay, boy, it's for love. "Spe. Not of you. "Pal. Of my mistress then. Spe. 'Twere good you knock'd him. "Sil. Servant, you are fad. "Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. "Thu. Seem you that you are not? "Val. Haply, I do. "Thu. So do counterfeits. "Val. So do you. "Thu. What feem I, that I am not? "Val. Wife. “Thu. What inftance 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, fir Thurio? do you change colour? "Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of ca<< meleon. “ Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood, " than live in your air. "Val. You have said, fir. "Thu. Ay, fir, and done too, for this time, [gin. "Val. I know it well, fir; you always end ere you be"Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quick“ly shot off.. "Val. "Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. "Sil. Who is that, servant? "Val. Yourself, fweet lady; for you gave the fire: "fir 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 "hall make your wit bankrupt. "Val. I know it well, fir: 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. 66 "Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more; here comes my father. Enter Duke, attended*. Duk. Now, daughter Silvia? you are hard befet, Sir Valentine, your father's in good health: What fay you to a letter from your friends, Of much good news? Val. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. Duk. Know you don Antonio, your countryman? To be of worth, and worthy eftimation, And not without defert fo well reputed. Duk. Hath he not a fon? Val. Ay, my good lord; a fon, that well deferves The honour and regard of such a father. We could wish the fcene to begin here with the Duke meeting his daughter, &c, as what precedes is exceedingly childish. |