And that thou may'ft perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is foon suggested,
I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself have ever kept:
And thence fhe 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 presently :
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly,
That my difcov'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 fhall never know

That I had any light from thee of this.

Pro. Adieu, my Lord: Sir Valentiae is coming. [Exit. Pro.

SCENE II. Enter Valentine.

Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?
Val. Please it your Grace, there is a meffenger
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 fignify My health, and happy being at your court.

Duke. Nay then, no matter; ftay with me a while;

I am to break with thee of fome affairs,

That touch me near; wherein thou must be fecret.
'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 fure the match
Were rich and honourable; befides, the gentleman
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities
Befeeming fuch a wife as your fair daughter.
Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?

Duke. No, truft me; fhe is peevith, fullen, froward,
Proud, difobedient, ftubborn, lacking duty;
Neither regarding that the is my child,
Nor fearing me as if I were her father.

And

And may I fay 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 cherifh'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, fhe 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;
Befides, the fafhion of the time is change'd);
How, and which way, I may bestow myself,
To be regarded in her fun-bright eye.

Val. Win her with gifts, if the refpects not words; Dumb jewels often in their filent kind,

[her;

More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.
Duke. But he did fcorn a present that I fent her.
Val. A woman fometimes fcorns what beft contents
Send her another; never give her o'er;
For fcorn at firft makes after-love the more.
If fhe do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you.
If fhe do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;
For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no repulfe, whatever the doth fay;
For, Get you gone, the doth not mean away.
Flatter, and praife, commend, extol their graces;
Tho' ne'er fo black, fay they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I fay, 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 feverely from refort of men,

That no man hath accefs 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 fafe,

That no man hath recourfe to her by night.

Val. What lets but one may enter at her window?

Duke.

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 caft up with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would ferve to fcale 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 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 ev'ry thing that he can come by. Val. By feven o'clock I'll get you fuch a ladder. Duke. But hark thee; I will go to her alone; How shall I beft 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 ferve the turn? Val. Ay, my good Lord.

Duke. Then let me fee thy cloak;

I'll get me one of fuch another length.

Val. Why, any cloak will ferve the turn, my Lord. Duke. How fhall I fafhion me to wear a cloak?

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.

[Pulls off his cloak. What letter is this fame? what's here? To Silvia!

And here an engine fit for my proceeding?

I'll be fo bold to break the feal for once. [Duke reads.
My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,
And flaves they are to me, that fend them flying:
Oh, could their mafter come and go as lightly,

Himfelf would lodge, where fenfeless they are lying.
My herald thoughts in thy pure bofom reft them,
While I, their King, that thither them importune,
Do curfe the grace, that with fuch grace hath blefs'd them,
Becaufe myfelf do want my fervants' fortune;

I curfe myfelf, for they are fent by me,

That they should harbour where their lord would be.
What's here? Silvia, this night will I enfranchife thee
'Tis fo, and here's the ladder for the purpose,
Why, Phaeton, for thou art Merops' fon,
Wilt thou afpire 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 slave!
Beftow thy fawning fmiles 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 beftow'd on thee.
But if thou linger in my
territories.
Longer than fwifteft exped 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'ft thy life, make speed from hence.

SCE NE III.

[Exit

Val. And why not death, rather than living torment? To die, is to be banifh'd from myself : • And Silvia is myself; banifh'd from her, Is felf from felf: a deadly banishment! • What light is light, if Silvia be not feen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?

• Unless it be to think that she is by;
• And feed upon the fhadow of perfection,
Except I be by Silvia in the night,

There is no mufic in the nightingale ;
• Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.
She is my effence, and I leave to be,
If I be not by her fair influence
Fofter'd, illumin'd, cherifh'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 Protheus and Launce.

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

Laun. So-ho! fo ho!

Pro. What feeft thou?

Laun. 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 fpirit?

Val. Neither.

Pro. What then?

Val. Nothing.

Laun. Can nothing speak? Mafter, fhall I ftrike? Pro. Whom wouldst thou ftrike?·

Laun. Nothing.

Pro. Villain, forbear.

Laun. Why, Sir, I'll ftrike nothing; I pray youPro. I fay forbear. Friend Valentine, a word. Val. My ears are ftopt, 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 harfh; untunable, and bad.

Val. Is Silvia dead?

Pro. No, Valentine.

Val. No Valentine, indeed, for facred Silvia! Hath fhe forfworn me?

Pro. No, Valentine.

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

Laun. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are vaa

nifh'd.

Pro. That thou art banifh'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 excefs of it will make me furfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro. Ay, ay; and the hath offer'd to the doom,
Which unrevers'd ftands in effectual force,
A fea of melting pearl, which fome call tears.
Thofe at her father's churlifh feet the tender'd,
With them, upon her knees, her humble self;
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness fo became them,
As if but now they waxed pale for woe.

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
Sad fighs, deep groans, nor filver-fhedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompaffionate fire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Befides, her interceffion chaf'd him fo,
When the for thy repeal was fuppliant,
VOL. I.

U

That