LITMIR.BIZ

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A vengeance on ‘t! There ‘tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand; this hat is Nan our maid; I am the dog; no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog—O! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father: ‘Father, your blessing.’ Now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping; now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother;—O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why there ‘tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

       [Enter PANTHINO.]

       PANTHINO. Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? Why weep’st thou, man? Away, ass! You’ll lose the tide if you tarry any longer.

       LAUNCE. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

       PANTHINO.

       What’s the unkindest tide?

       LAUNCE.

       Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog.

       PANTHINO. Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy service,—Why dost thou stop my mouth?

       LAUNCE.

       For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

       PANTHINO.

       Where should I lose my tongue?

       LAUNCE.

       In thy tale.

       PANTHINO.

       In thy tail!

       LAUNCE. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

       PANTHINO.

       Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.

       LAUNCE.

       Sir, call me what thou darest.

       PANTHINO.

       Will thou go?

       LAUNCE.

       Well, I will go.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE 4. Milan. A room in the DUKE’S palace.

       [Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED.]

       SILVIA.

       Servant!

       VALENTINE.

       Mistress?

       SPEED.

       Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

       VALENTINE.

       Ay, boy, it’s for love.

       SPEED.

       Not of you.

       VALENTINE.

       Of my mistress, then.

       SPEED.

       ‘Twere good you knock’d him.

       SILVIA.

       Servant, you are sad.

       VALENTINE.

       Indeed, madam, I seem so.

       THURIO.

       Seem you that you are not?

       VALENTINE.

       Haply I do.

       THURIO.

       So do counterfeits.

       VALENTINE.

       So do you.

       THURIO.

       What seem I that I am not?

       VALENTINE.

       Wise.

       THURIO.

       What instance of the contrary?

       VALENTINE.

       Your folly.

       THURIO.

       And how quote you my folly?

       VALENTINE.

       I quote it in your jerkin.

       THURIO.

       My jerkin is a doublet.

       VALENTINE.

       Well, then, I’ll double your folly.

       THURIO.

       How?

       SILVIA.

       What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change colour?

       VALENTINE.

       Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

       THURIO. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air.

       VALENTINE.

       You have said, sir.

       THURIO.

       Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

       VALENTINE.

       I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.

       SILVIA.

       A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

       VALENTINE.

       ‘Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

       SILVIA.

       Who is that, servant?

       VALENTINE. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

       THURIO. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

       VALENTINE. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words.

       [Enter DUKE]

       SILVIA.

       No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.

       [Enter DUKE.]

       DUKE.

       Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.

       Sir Valentine, your father is in good health.

       What say you to a letter from your friends

       Of much good news?

       VALENTINE.

       My lord, I will be thankful

       To any happy messenger from thence.

       DUKE.

       Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

       VALENTINE.

       Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman

       To be of worth and worthy estimation,

       And not without desert so well reputed.

       DUKE.

       Hath he not a son?

       VALENTINE.

       Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves

       The honour and regard of such a father.

       DUKE.

       You know him well?

       VALENTINE.

       I knew him as myself; for from our infancy

       We have convers’d and spent our hours together;

       And though myself have been an idle truant,

       Omitting the sweet benefit of time

       To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

       Yet hath Sir Proteus,—for that’s his name,—

       Made use and fair advantage

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