Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor, Val. Win her with gifts, if the refpect not words; Dumb jewels often, in their filent kind, More than quick words, do move a woman's mind. Send her another; never give her o'er ; Duke. But the I mean, is promis'd by her friends 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 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 fo fhelving, that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. the fashion of the time-] The modes of courtship, the acts by which men recommended themfelves to ladies. JOHNSON. What lets,] i. e. what hinders. STEEVENS. 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 fuch a ladder. Val. When would you use it? pray, fir, tell me that. Duke. This very night; for love is like a child, That longs for every 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 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 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 fashion me to wear a cloak?I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.——— 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. Himfelf would lodge, where fenfeless they are lying. I curfe myself, 7 for they are fent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would be. for they are fent by me,] For is the fame as for that, fince. JOHNSON. What's What's here? Silvia, this night will I enfranchife thee: Thank me for this, more than for all the favours, Longer than fwifteft expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, Be gone, I will not hear thy vain excufe, But, as thou lov❜ft thy life, make speed from hence. [Exit. Val. And why not death, rather than living tor ment? To die, is to be banish'd from myself; 8 3 Merops' fon)] Thou art Phaeton in thy rafhnefs, but without his pretenfions; thou art not the fon of a divinity, but a terra filius, a low born wretch; Merops is thy true father, with whom Phaeton was falfely reproached. JOHNSON. This fcrap of mythology Shakespeare might have found in the fpurious play of K. John, 1591, 1611, and 1622: as fometime Phaeton 66 "Miftrufting filly Merops for his fire." Or in Robert Greene's Orlando Furiofo, 1594: "Why foolish, hardy, daring, fimple groom, "Follower of fond conceited Phaeton, &c." STEEVENS. And And feed upon the fhadow of perfection. Fofter'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive. Enter Protheus and Launce. Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 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 spirit? Val. Neither. Pro. What then? Val. Nothing. Laun. Can nothing speak? mafter, fhall I ftrike? Pro. Whom would'st thou strike ? Laun. Nothing. Pro. Villain, forbear. Launc. Why, fir, I'll ftrike nothing: I pray you,― Pro. Sirrah, I fay, forbear: Friend Valentine, a word. Val. My ears are ftopp'd, and cannot hear good news, I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:] To fly his doom, ufed for by flying, or in flying, is a gallicifm. The fenfe is, By avoiding the execution of his fentence I fhall not escape death. If I ftay here, I fuffer myself to be destroyed; if I go away, I destroy myfelf. JOHNSON. So So much of bad already hath poffefs'd them. Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, indeed, for facred Silvia !Hath the 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 vanish'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 excefs of it will make ine furfeit. Pro. Ay, ay; and fhe hath offer'd to the doom, But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Val. No more; unless the next word, that thou Have fome malignant power upon my life: Pro. |