Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd,
impatiently" target="_blank" title="ad.不耐烦地,急躁地">
impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not
hindered,
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With
willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and
hinder not my course.
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,
A
blessed soul doth in Elysium.
LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along?
JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men;
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-
reputed page.
LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.
JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in
silken strings
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots-
To be
fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.
LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?
JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,
What
compass will you wear your farthingale.'
Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.
LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.
JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.
LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.
JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have
What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.
But tell me, wench, how will the world
repute me
For
undertaking so unstaid a journey?
I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.
LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not.
JULIA. Nay, that I will not.
LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey when you come,
No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.
I fear me he will
scarce be pleas'd withal.
JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances of
infinite of love,
Warrant me
welcome to my Proteus.
LUCETTA. All these are servants to
deceitful men.
JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did
govern Proteus' birth;
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
His love
sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.
JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong
To bear a hard opinion of his truth;
Only
deserve my love by
loving him.
And
presently go with me to my
chamber,
To take a note of what I stand in need of
To furnish me upon my
longing journey.
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof,
dispatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it
presently;
I am
impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt
ACT III. SCENE I.
Milan. The DUKE'S palace
Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS
DUKE. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
We have some secrets to confer about. Exit THURIO
Now tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?
PROTEUS. My
gracious lord, that which I would discover
The law of friendship bids me to conceal;
But, when I call to mind your
gracious favours
Done to me, undeserving as I am,
My duty pricks me on to utter that
Which else no
worldly good should draw from me.
Know,
worthyprince, Sir Valentine, my friend,
This night intends to steal away your daughter;
Myself am one made privy to the plot.
I know you have determin'd to
bestow her
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;
And should she thus be stol'n away from you,
It would be much
vexation to your age.
Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose
To cross my friend in his intended drift
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
A pack of sorrows which would press you down,
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.
DUKE. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,
Which to requite, command me while I live.
This love of
theirs myself have often seen,
Haply when they have judg'd me fast asleep,
And
oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid
Sir Valentine her company and my court;
But, fearing lest my
jealous aim might err
And so, unworthily,
disgrace the man,
A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,
I gave him gentle looks,
thereby to find
That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me.
And, that thou mayst
perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,
I
nightly lodge her in an upper tow'r,
The key
whereof myself have ever kept;
And
thence she cannot be
convey'd away.
PROTEUS. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean
How he her
chamber window will ascend
And with a corded
ladder fetch her down;
For which the
youthful lover now is gone,
And this way comes he with it
presently;
Where, if it please you, you may
intercept him.
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly
That my discovery be not aimed at;
For love of you, not hate unto my friend,
Hath made me
publisher of this pretence.
DUKE. Upon mine honour, he shall never know
That I had any light from thee of this.
PROTEUS. Adieu, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming. Exit
Enter VALENTINE
DUKE. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?
VALENTINE. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger
That stays to bear my letters to my friends,
And I am going to deliver them.
DUKE. Be they of much import?
VALENTINE. The tenour of them doth but signify
My health and happy being at your court.
DUKE. Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;
I am to break with thee of some affairs
That touch me near,
wherein thou must be secret.
'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.
VALENTINE. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the match
Were rich and
honourable; besides, the gentleman
Is full of
virtue,
bounty, worth, and qualities
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.
Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?
DUKE. No, trust me; she is peevish,
sullen, froward,
Proud, disobedient,
stubborn,
lacking duty;
Neither
regarding that she is my child
Nor fearing me as if I were her father;
And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
And, where I thought the
remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her childlike duty,
I now am full resolv'd to take a wife
And turn her out to who will take her in.
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dow'r;
For me and my possessions she esteems not.
VALENTINE. What would your Grace have me to do in this?
DUKE. There is a lady, in Verona here,
Whom I
affect; but she is nice, and coy,
And
nought esteems my aged eloquence.
Now,
therefore, would I have thee to my tutor-
For long agone I have forgot to court;
Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd-
How and which way I may
bestow myself
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.
VALENTINE. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:
Dumb jewels often in their silent kind
More than quick words do move a woman's mind.
DUKE. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.
VALENTINE. A woman
sometime scorns what best
contents her.
Send her another; never give her o'er,
For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you;
If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone,
For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no
repulse,
whatever she doth say;
For 'Get you gone' she doth not mean 'Away!'
Flatter and praise,
commend, extol their graces;
Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
DUKE. But she I mean is promis'd by her friends
Unto a
youthful gentleman of worth;
And kept
severely from
resort of men,
That no man hath
access by day to her.
VALENTINE. Why then I would
resort to her by night.
DUKE. Ay, but the doors be lock'd and keys kept safe,
That no man hath
recourse to her by night.
VALENTINE. What lets but one may enter at her window?
DUKE. Her
chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
And built so shelving that one cannot climb it
Without
apparenthazard of his life.
VALENTINE. Why then a
ladder, quaintly made of cords,
To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks,
Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r,
So bold Leander would adventure it.
DUKE. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where I may have such a
ladder.
VALENTINE. When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that.
DUKE. This very night; for Love is like a child,
That longs for everything that he can come by.
VALENTINE. By seven o'clock I'll get you such a
ladder.
DUKE. But, hark thee; I will go to her alone;
How shall I best
convey the
ladder thither?
VALENTINE. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it