And that thou may'st perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is foon fuggested,
Í nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself have ever kept:
And thence she cannot be convey'd away.

Pro. Know, Noble Lord, they have devis'd a mean
How he her chamber-window will afcend,
And with a corded ladder fetch her down;
For which the youthful lover now is gone,
And this way comes he with it prefently :
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly,
That my discov'ry 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. · Pro. Adieu, my Lord : Sir Valentine is coming.

[Exit. Pro. SCENE II. Enter Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Val. 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?

Val. The tenor of them do but signify My health, and happy being at your court.

Duke. Nay then, no matter; stay with me a while; I am to break with thee of fome affairs, That touch me near; wherein thou must be secret. 'Tis not unknown to thee, that I have fought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

Val. 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 hin?

Duke. No, trust me; she is peevith, 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 her's,
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty,
I am now full refolv'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 poffeffions, the esteems not.

Val. What would your Grace have me to do in this?
Duke. There is a lady, Sir, in Milan here,
Whom I affect; but the is nice and coy,
And nought eiteems 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 change’d);
How, and which way, I may bestow myself,
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Val. Win her with gifts, if the respects not words; Dumb jewels often in their filent kind, More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.

Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best contents Send her another; never give her o'er ;

[her; For scorn at firit 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 gonę ; For why, the fools are mad if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever the doth say; For, Get you gone, the doth not mean away. Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces; Tho'ne'er fo 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 the I mean, is promis'd by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, And kept severely from refort of men, That no man hath access by day to her.

Val. Why then I would refort 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 tower ;
So bold Leander would adventure it.

Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where I may have inch 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 ev'ry thing that he can come by.

Val. 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?

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.

[Pulls of his cloak. What letter is this fame? what's here? To Silvia! And here an engine fit for my proceeding? I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [Duke reads, My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,

And Naves they are to me, that send them flying : Ol, could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge, where senseless they are lying. My herald thoughts in thy pure boson reft them,

While 1, their King, that thither their importune, Do curse the grace, that with such grace bath blefi'd them,

Because myself do want my fervants' fortune ; I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they jhould harbour where their lord would be. What's here? Silvia, this night will I enfranchise theen 'Tis fo, and here's the ladder for the purpose, Why, Phaéton, for thou art Merops' lon, Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world?


Wilt thou reach stars, because they thine on thee?
Go, base intruder ! over-weening flave!
Beltow thy fawning smiles on equal mates ;
And think my patience more than thy defert,
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 expid tion
Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
By heav'n my wrath fhail far exceed the love
I ever bore my daughter or thyself.
Be gone, I will not hear thy vain excuse;
But as thou lov'ít thy life, make speed from hence.

[Exit. S CE N E III. Val. And why not death, rather than living torment? "To die, is to be banilh'd from myself : • And Silvia is myself; banish'd from her, • Is self from felf: 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 lhadow 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 ily I hence, I fly away from life.

Enter Protheus and Launce.
Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.
Laun. So-ho! so ho!.
Pro. What feest thou ?

Laun. Him we go to find.
There's not a hair on's head, but 'tis a Valentine.
Pro. Valentine,

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Val. No.
Pro. Who then, his fpirit ?
Val. Neither.
Pro. What then ?
Val. Nothing
Laun. Can nothing speak? Master, fliall I strike ?
Pro. Whom wouldst thou strike ?
Laun. Nothing
Pro. Villain, forbear.
Laun. Why, Sir, I'll strike nothing ; I pray you
Pro. I say forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

Val. My ears are stopt, and cannot hear good news ; So much of bad already hath poffefs'd them.

Pro. Then in dumb filence will I bury mine;
For they are harsh, untunable, and bad.

Val. Is Silvia dead ?
Pro. No, Valentine.

Val. No Valentine, indeed, for facred Silvia !
Hath she forsworn me?

Pro. No, Valentine.

Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me! What is your news? Laun, Sir, there's a proclamation that you are va

nifh'd. Pró. That thou art banish'd; oh, that is the news, From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val. Oh, 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 the hath offer'd to the doom, Which unrevers'd stands in effeétual force, A fea 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

Sad fighs, deep groans, nor filver-thedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate fire;
But Valentine, if he be ta’en, muit die.
Besides, her interceflion chaf'd him fo,
When the for thy repeal was suppliant,


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