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النشر الإلكتروني

Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach ftars, 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 heav'n, 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. SC E N E III. Pal. AND why not death, rather than living torTo 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 Fosterd, 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

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,
Val. No.
Pro. Who then ; his fpirit?
Val. Neither.
Pro. What then?
Val. Nothing..
Laun. Can nothing speak? master, shall 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 pofleft them.

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

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

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

Pro. No, Valentine.

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

nish'd. Pro. 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 she hath offer'd to the doom, Which unrevers'd stands in effectual force,

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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 filver-lhedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate Sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.
Besides, her intercefsion chaf'd him fo,
When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
That to close prison he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of 'biding there.
Val. 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.

Pro. 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, tho' thou art hence,
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd
Ev’n 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, tho' not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me.

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an' if thou seest my boy,
Bid him make hafte, and meet me at the north-gate.

Pro.

Pro. Go, Sirrah, find him out: come, Valentine.
Val. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine !

Exeunt Valentine and Protheus.

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Laun.

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 kind. 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 milk-maid; yet'tis not a maid, for fhe 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. Here is the cat-log (Pulling out a paper] of her conditions ; Imprimis, she can fetch and carry; why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore she is 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?

Laun. 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?

Laun. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.
Speed. Why, man, how black ?
Laun. Why, as black as ink.
Speed. Let me read them.
Laun. Fie, on thee, jolt-head, thou canst not read.
Speed. Thou lieft, I can.
Laun. I will try thee; tell me this, who begot thee?

Speed.

Speed. Marry, the son of my grand-father.

Laun. O illiterate loiterer, it was the son of thy grand-mother; this proves, that thou canst not read.

Speed. Come, fool, come, try me in thy paper.
Laun. There, and St. Nicholas be thy speed !
Speed. Imprimis, she can milk.
Laun. Ay, that she can.
Speed. Item, she brews good ale.

Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, Blesing of your heart, you brew good ale.

Speed, Item, she can fowe.
Laun. That's as much as to say, Can she so?
Speed. Item, she can knit.

Laun. 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.

Laun. A special virtue, for then she need not to be wash'd and scour'd.

Speed. Item, she can fpin,

Laun. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

Speed. Item, she hath many nameless virtues.

Laun. 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. Laun. Close at the heels of her virtues. Speed. Item, she is not to be kift fafting, in respect of her breath.

Laun. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast: read on.

Speed. Item, she hath a sweet mouth.
Laun. That makes amends for her sour breath.
Speed. Item, she doth talk in her sleep.

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

Speed. Item, she is flow in words.
Laun. Q villain! that set down among her vices !

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