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 serve 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. "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.

"Himself would lodge, where fenfelefs 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 bleft them, "Because myfelf do want my fervant's fortune: "I curfe myfelf, for they are fent by me;

"That they fhould harbour, where their Lord should 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 heav'nly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?

Wilt thou reach ftars, because they shine on thee?
Go, bafe intruder! over-weening flave!
Beftow thy fawning fmiles 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 fwifteft expedition

Will give thee time to leave our royal Court,
By heav'n my wrath fhall far exceed the love,
I ever bore my daughter or thyself:

Be

Be

gone, I will not hear thy vain excufe,

But as thou lov't thy life, make speed from hence. [Exit.
Val. And why not death, rather than living torment ?
To die is to be banish'd from myself,

And Silvia is myself; banish'd from her,
Is felf from felf: 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 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, rur, run, and feek him out.

Laun. So-ho! fo-ho!

Pro. What feeft thou?

Laun. Him we go to find;

There's not an 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 you,
Pro. I fay, forbear; friend Valentine, a word.

Fal

Val. My ears are ftopt, and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath poffeft 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 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 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 excess of it will make me furfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro. Ay, ay; and fhe hath offered to the doom,
Which unrevers'd stands in effectual force,

A fea of melting pearl, which fome call tears:
Those at her father's churlish feet the tender'd
With them, upon her knees, her humble felf;
Wringing her hands, whofe whitenefs 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 Sire;

But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Befides, her interceffion chaf'd him so,
When the for thy repeal was fuppliant,
That to close prifon he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val. No more; unless the next word, that thou speak'ft,
Have fame malignant power upon my life:
If fo, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,
As ending anthem of my endlefs dolour.

Pro. Ceafe to lament for that thou canst not help,
And ftudy help for that which thou lament'st.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good:
Here if thou stay, thou canst not fee thy love;

Befides,

Befides, thy ftaying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lover's ftaff; walk hence with that;
And manage it against despairing thoughts.
Thy letters may be here, tho' thou art hence,
Which, being writ to me, fhall be deliver'd
Ev'n in the milk-white bofom of thy love.
The time now ferves not to expoftulate;
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't Silvia, tho' not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me.

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou feeft my
boy,
Bid him make hafte, and meet me at the north-gate.
Pro. Go, Sirrah, find him out: come, Valentine!
Val. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!

Exeunt Val. and Pro.

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 knave. 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 goffips; yet 'tis a maid, for fhe is her mafter's maid and ferves for wages; fhe 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, fhe can fetch and carry; why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horfe cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is the better than a jade. Item, fhe can milk; look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Enter Speed.

Speed. How now, fignior Launce? what news with your mastership? Laun. With my master's fhip? why, it is at fea. (12)

Speed.

(12) With my mastership? why, it is at fea.] Thefe poetical Editors are pleasant Gentlemen to let this pafs without any fufpicion.

For

Speed. Well, your old vice ftill; mistake the word; What news then in your paper?

Laun. The blackeft news that ever thou heard'ft.
Speed. Why, man, how black?

Laun. Why, as black as ink.
Speed. Let me read them.

Laun. Fy on thee, jolt-head, thou can'ft not read.
Speed. Thou lyeft, I can.

Laun. I will try thee; tell me this, who begot thee?
Speed. Marry, the fon of my grandfather.

Laun. O illiterate loiterer, it was the fon of thy
grand-mother; this proves, that thou can'ft not read.
Speed. Come, fool, come, try me in thy paper.
Laun. There, and St. Nicholas be thy speed!
Speed. Imprimis, fhe can milk.

Laun. Ay, that she can.

Speed. Item, the brews good ale.

Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, Bleffing of your brew good ate.

heart, you

Speed. Item, the can fowe.

Laun. That's as much as to fay, can be fo?

Speed. Item, fhe can knit.

Laun. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock !

Speed. Item, fhe can wash and scour.

Laun. A fpecial virtue, for then fhe need not to be wafh'd and fcour'd.

Speed. Item, fhe can spin.

Laun. Then may I fet the world on wheels, when fhe can fpin for her living.

Speed. Item, he hath many nameless virtues.

Laun. That's as much as to fay, baftard virtues: that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no

names.

For how does Launce mistake the word? Speed asks him about his maftership, and he replies to it litteratim. But then how was his maftership at fea, and on fhore too? The addition of a letter and a note of Apoftrophe make Launce both mistake the word, and fets the pun right: It reftores, indeed, but a mean joke; but, without it, there is no fenfe in the paffage. Befides, it is in character with the reft of the scene; and I dare be confident, the Poet's own conceit.

Speed: