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Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,
I will not hear thy vain excuse,
[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 Protheus and Launce.
Laun. Him we go to find:
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;
Val. Is Silvia dead ?
Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia !
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,
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears :
Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,
Thy letters may be here, tho' thou art hence,
Val. I pray thee, Launce, an' if thou seest my boy,
Pro. Go, Sirrah, find him out: come, Valentine.
Exeunt Valentine and Protheus.
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. 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. And thereof comes the proverb, Blesing of your heart, you brew good ale.
Speed, Item, she can fowe.
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. It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.
Speed. Item, she is flow in words.