The Complete Works of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare

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Altar

       With sacred act advances! But one Rose:

       If well inspird, this Battaile shal confound

       Both these brave Knights, and I, a virgin flowre

       Must grow alone unpluck’d.

       [Here is heard a sodaine twang of Instruments, and the Rose fals\

       from the Tree (which vanishes under the altar.)]

       The flowre is falne, the Tree descends: O, Mistris,

       Thou here dischargest me; I shall be gather’d:

       I thinke so, but I know not thine owne will;

       Vnclaspe thy Misterie.—I hope she’s pleas’d,

       Her Signes were gratious. [They curtsey and Exeunt.]

      Scaena 2. (A darkened Room in the Prison.) [Enter Doctor, Iaylor and Wooer, in habite of Palamon.]

       DOCTOR.

       Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her?

       WOOER.

       O very much; The maids that kept her company

       Have halfe perswaded her that I am Palamon;

       Within this halfe houre she came smiling to me,

       And asked me what I would eate, and when I would kisse her:

       I told her presently, and kist her twice.

       DOCTOR.

       Twas well done; twentie times had bin far better,

       For there the cure lies mainely.

       WOOER.

       Then she told me

       She would watch with me to night, for well she knew

       What houre my fit would take me.

       DOCTOR.

       Let her doe so,

       And when your fit comes, fit her home,

       And presently.

       WOOER.

       She would have me sing.

       DOCTOR.

       You did so?

       WOOER.

       No.

       DOCTOR.

       Twas very ill done, then;

       You should observe her ev’ry way.

       WOOER.

       Alas,

       I have no voice, Sir, to confirme her that way.

       DOCTOR.

       That’s all one, if yee make a noyse;

       If she intreate againe, doe any thing,—

       Lye with her, if she aske you.

       IAILOR.

       Hoa, there, Doctor!

       DOCTOR.

       Yes, in the waie of cure.

       IAILOR.

       But first, by your leave,

       I’th way of honestie.

       DOCTOR.

       That’s but a nicenesse,

       Nev’r cast your child away for honestie;

       Cure her first this way, then if shee will be honest,

       She has the path before her.

       IAILOR.

       Thanke yee, Doctor.

       DOCTOR.

       Pray, bring her in,

       And let’s see how shee is.

       IAILOR.

       I will, and tell her

       Her Palamon staies for her: But, Doctor,

       Me thinkes you are i’th wrong still. [Exit Iaylor.]

       DOCTOR.

       Goe, goe:

       You Fathers are fine Fooles: her honesty?

       And we should give her physicke till we finde that—

       WOOER.

       Why, doe you thinke she is not honest, Sir?

       DOCTOR.

       How old is she?

       WOOER.

       She’s eighteene.

       DOCTOR.

       She may be,

       But that’s all one; tis nothing to our purpose.

       What ere her Father saies, if you perceave

       Her moode inclining that way that I spoke of,

       Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?

       WOOER.

       Yet, very well, Sir.

       DOCTOR.

       Please her appetite,

       And doe it home; it cures her, ipso facto,

       The mellencholly humour that infects her.

       WOOER.

       I am of your minde, Doctor.

       [Enter Iaylor, Daughter, Maide.]

       DOCTOR.

       You’l finde it so; she comes, pray humour her.

       IAILOR.

       Come, your Love Palamon staies for you, childe,

       And has done this long houre, to visite you.

       DAUGHTER.

       I thanke him for his gentle patience;

       He’s a kind Gentleman, and I am much bound to him.

       Did you nev’r see the horse he gave me?

       IAILOR.

       Yes.

       DAUGHTER.

       How doe you like him?

       IAILOR.

       He’s a very faire one.

       DAUGHTER.

       You never saw him dance?

       IAILOR.

       No.

       DAUGHTER.

       I have often.

       He daunces very finely, very comely,

       And for a Iigge, come cut and long taile to him,

       He turnes ye like a Top.

       IAILOR.

       That’s fine, indeede.

       DAUGHTER.

       Hee’l dance the Morris twenty mile an houre,

       And that will founder the best hobby-horse

       (If I have any skill) in all the parish,

       And gallops to the turne of LIGHT A’ LOVE:

       What thinke you of this horse?

       IAILOR.

       Having these vertues,

       I thinke he might be broght to play at Tennis.

       DAUGHTER.

       Alas, that’s nothing.

       IAILOR.

       Can he write and reade too?

       DAUGHTER.

       A very faire hand, and casts himselfe th’accounts

       Of all his hay and provender: That Hostler

       Must rise betime that cozens him. You know

      

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