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"Oh, could their mafter come and go as lightly, "Himself would lodge, where senseless 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 myself do want my fervant's fortune;

"I curfe myself, for they are fent by me,

"That they should harbour, where their lord would 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,
Wil: thou afpire to guide the heavenly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! over-weening flave!
Beftow thy fawning fmiles on equal mates;
And think, my patience, more than thy defert,
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 thy felf:


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gone, I will not hear thy vain excufe,

But as thou lov'ft thy life, make speed from hence.

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VAL. And why not death, rather than living torment? To die, is to be banish'd from myself: And Silvia is myself; banifh'd from her,

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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 shadow of perfection.
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no mufick 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, cherish'd, kept live.
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, run, 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,


PRO. Who then; his spirit?

VAL. Neither.

PRO. What then?

VAL. Nothing.

LAUN. Can nothing speak? master, shall I strike?

PRO. Whom wouldst thou strike?

LAUN. Nothing.

PRO. Villain, forbear.

LAUN. Why, Sir, I'll strike nothing; I pray you➡
PRO. I fay, forbear: friend Valentine, a word.

VAL. My ears are stopt, 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, untunable, 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 hath forfworn me! What is your news?

LAUN. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are vanish'd. PRO. That thou art banith'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 me furfeit.
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 fea of melting pearl, which fome call tears;
Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd,
With them, upon her knees, her humble self,
Wringing her hands, whofe whiteness so 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 fire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Befides, her interceffion chaf'd him fo,
When the for thy repeal was fuppliant,

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That to clofe prifon he commanded her,,
With many bitter threats of 'biding there.

VAL. No more; unless the next word, that thou speak'st, Have fome malignant power upon my life;

If fo, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

PRO. Ceafe to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament'st.
Time is the nurfe and breeder of all good.
Here if thou stay, thou canst not fee thy love;
Besides thy staying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lover's staff; 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. Co, Sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. VAL. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine! [Exeunt Valentine and Protheus. SCENE


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 she hath had goffips; yet 'tis a maid, for fhe is her master's maid, and ferves for wages: fhe hath more qualities than a water-fpaniel, which is much in a bare chriftian. Here is the cat log [Pulling out a paper] of her conditions; imprimis, she can fetch and carry; why a horfe can do no more; nay, a horfe cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore she is better than a jade. Item, she can milk, look you, a fweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Enter Speed.

SPEED. How now, fignior Launce? what news with your mastership?

LAUN. With my mafter's fhip? why, it is at fea.

SPEED. Well, your old vice ftill; miftake the word: what news then in your paper?

LAUN. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.

SPEED. Why, man, how black?

LAUN. Why, as black as ink.

SPEED. Let me read them.

LAUN. Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou can't not read.
SPEED. Thou lyeft, I can.

LAUN. I will try thee; tell me this, who begot thee?
SPEED. Marry, the fon of my grand-father.

LAUN. O illiterate loiterer, it was the fon of thy grandmother; 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, the can milk.
LAUN. Ay, that he can.

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