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Why muse you, Sir ? 'tis dinner time.

Val. I have din'd.

Speed. Ay, but hearken, Sir ; tho' the Cameleon love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourish'd

victuals, and would fain have meat : Oh, be not like your mistress ; be moved, be moved. (Exeunt.

by my

SC EN E II.

Change to Julia's House at Verona.

Enter Protheus and Julia. Por. AV E patience, gentle Julia.

. Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. Jul. If

you
turn not, you

will return the sooner : Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's fake.

[Giving a ring. Pro. Why then we'll make exchange ; here, take

you this.

Jul. And feal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day,
Wherein I figh not, Julia, for thy fake ;
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me, for my love's forgetfulness !
My father stays my coming ; answer'not :
The tide is now; nay, not thy tide of tears ;
That tide will stay me longer, than I should :

[Exit Julia.
Julia, farewel.-What! gone without a word ?
Ay, so true love should do ; it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds, than words, to grace it.

Enter Panthion.
Pan. Sir Protheus; you are staid for.

Pro. Go; I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. Exeunt.

SCENE

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Changes to a Street.

Enter Launce, with his dog Crab.
Laun.6 TAY, 'will be this hour ere I have done

‘weeping ; all the kind of the Launces • have this very fault; I have receiv'd my propor- tion, like the prodigious son, and am going

with Sir Protheus to the Imperial's court. I think, Crab my dog be the soureit-natur'd dog that lives : my mother weeping, my father wailing, my lifter crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity ;

yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear! • he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no

more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have

wept, to have seen our parting; why, my grandam • having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at • my parting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of it: - this shoe is my father; no, this left shoe is my fa• ther ; no, no, this left shoe is

my
mother

6 nay, • that cannot be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so ; uit hath the worser sole ; this shoe, with the hole - in it, is my mother, and this my father ; a ven· geance on't, there 'tis : now, Sir, this staff is

my sister; for, look you, she is as white as a lilly, and

as small as a wand ; this hat is Nan, our maid ; I • am the dog ; no, the dog is himself; and I am • the dog : oh, the dog is me, and I am myself;

ay, so, so ; now come I to my father ; father, your

blessing; now should not the shoe speak a word - for weeping ; now should I kiss my father; well, o he

weeps on ; now come I to my mother ; oh that - she could speak now wode woman ! well, I

* Ok that she would speak like an ould Womun.] The first Folios read would. It should be wode ; mad, crazy, frantic with Grief.

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like a

• kiss

tears.

: kiss her; why there 'tis ; here's my mother's breath

up

and down : now come I to my • mark the moan she makes : now the dog all this

while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; but see, how I lay the dust with my

Enter Panthion. Pant. Launce, away, away, aboard; thy master is fhipp'd, and thou art to post after with oars : what's the matter ? why weep'lt thou, man? away, ass, you will lose the tide if you tarry any longer.

Laun. It is no matter if the ty'd were lost, for it is the unkindest ty'd that ever any man ty’d.

Pant. What's the unkindest tide ?
Laun. Why, he that's ty'd here ; Crab my dog.

Pant. Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood; and in losing the flood, lose thy voyage ; and in losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and in lofing thy master, lose thy service ; and in losing thy service,

-why dost thou stop my mouth ?
Laun. For fear thou should it lose thy tongue.
Pant. Where should I lose my tongue?
Laun. In thy tale.
Pant. In thy tail ?

Laun. Lose the flood, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tide ? 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.

Pant. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call

thee.
Laun. Sir, call me what thou dar'ft.
Pant. Wilt thou go?
Laun. Well, I will go.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

S CE N E IV.

Changes to Milan.

An Apartment in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio, and Speed.
Sil. ERVANT,

Val, Mistress ?
Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.
Val. Ay, boy, it's for love.
Speed. Not of you.
Val. Of my mistress then.
Speed. 'Twere good, you knockt him.
Sil. Servant, you are sad.
Val. Indeed, madam, I seem fo.
Thu. Seem

you
that

you are not?
Val. Haply, I do.
Thu. So do counterfeits.
Val. So do you.
Thu. What seem I, that I am not ?
Val. Wife.
Thu. What instance 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, Sir Thurio ? do you change colour ?

Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of Cameleon.

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood, than live in

your

air. Val. You have said, Sir. Thu. Ay, Sir, and done too, for this time.

Val. I know it well, Sir; you always end, ere you begin.

Sil. A fine volly of words, gentlemen, and quickly fhot off.

Val. 'Tis, indeed, madam ; we thank the giver. Sil. Who is that, servant ? Val. Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire ; Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyfhip’s looks, and spends, what he borrows, kindly in your company.

Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt,

Val. I know it well, Sir ; 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.

Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more: Here comes

my father.

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Enter the Duke. Duke. ,

Sir Valentine, your father's in good health: What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news ?

Val. My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.
Duké. Know you Don Anthonio, your countryman?

Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
To be of worth and worthy estimation ;
And, not without defert, so well reputed.

Duke. Hath he not a son ?

Val. Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father,

Duke. You know him well.?
Val. I knew him, as myself; for from our infancy

We

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