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Would'st thou then counsel me to fall in love?
Luc. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully.
Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen, That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion, which is worthiest love?
Luc. Please you, repeat their names, I'll shew my mind According to my shallow simple skill.
Jul. What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour ?
Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine;
But, were I you, he never should be mine.
Jul. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?
Luc. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so, so.
Jul. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus ?
Luc. Lord, lord ! to see what folly reigns in us !
Jul. How now! what means this passion at his name?
Luc. Pardon, dear madam ; 'tis a passing shame,
That I, unworthy body as I am,
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?
Luc. Then thus,- of many good I think him best.
Jul. Your reason?
Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason;
I think him so, because I think him so.
Jul. And would'st thou have me cast my love on
him? Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never mov'd me. Luc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small. Luc. Fire, that is closest kept, burns most of all. Jul. They do not love, that do not show their love. Luc. O, they love least, that let men know their love.
Jul. I would, I knew his mind.
Luc. Peruse this paper, madam.
Jul. To Julia,-Say, from whom?
Luc. That the contents will shew.
Jul. Say, say; who gave it thee?
Luc. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from
He would have given it you, but I, being in the way,
Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.
Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ?
To whisper and conspire against my youth?
Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth,
And you an officer fit for the place.
There, take the paper, see it be returned;
Or else return no more into my sight.
Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.
Jul. Will you be gone?
Luc. That you may ruminate.
Jul. And yet, I would, I had o'erlook'd the letter.
It were a shame to call her back again,
And pray her to a fault, for which I chid her.
What fool is she, that knows I am a maid,
And would not force the letter to my view ?
Since maids, in modesty, say, No, to that,
Which they would have the profferer construe, Ay.
Fie, fie ! how wayward is this foolish love,
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod !
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,
When willingly I would have had her here !
How angerly I taught my brow to frown,
When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile!
My penance is, to call Lucetta back,
And ask permission for my folly past :-
What ho! Lucetta !
Luc. What would your ladyship?
Jul. Is it near dinner-time ?
Luc. I would it were ;
That you might kill your stomach on your meat,
And not upon your maid.
Jul. What is't you took up
Jul. Why should'st thou stoop then!
Luc. To take a paper up, that I let fall.
Jul. And is that paper nothing?
Luc. Nothing concerning me.
Jul. Then let it lie for those, that it concerns.
Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
Unless it have a false interpreter.
Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.
Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune: Give me a note : your ladyship can set.
Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible :
Best sing it to the tune of Light o' love.
Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune.
Jul. Heavy? belike, it hath some burden then.
Luc. Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.
Jul. And why not you?
Luc. I cannot reach so high.
Jul. Let's see your song :-How now, minion?
Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune.
Jul. You do not?
Luc. No, madam; it is too sharp.
Jul. You, minion, are too saucy.
Luc. Nay, now you are too flat,
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.
Jul. The mean is drown'd with your unruly base.
Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.
Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation !- [Tears the letter.
Go, get you gone ; and let the papers lie :
You would be fingering them, to anger me.
Luc. She makes it strange; but she would be best
To be so anger'd with another letter.
Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same !
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words !
Injurious wasps! to feed on such sweet honey,
And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings !
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
And, here is writ-kind Julia ;--unkind Julia !
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
Look, here is writ-love-wounded Proteus :-
Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed,
Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal’d;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice, or thrice, was Proteus written down?
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away,
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock,
And throw it thence into the raging sea !
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,-
Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia ; that I'll tear away;
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names ;
Thus will I fold them one upon another;
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
Re-enter LUCETTA. Luc. Madam, dinner's ready, and your father stays. Jul. Well, let us go. Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up.
Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.
Jul. I see, you have a month's mind to them.
Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink.
Jul. Come, come, will’t please you go? [Ereunt.
SCENE III.-The same. A Room in ANTONIO's House.
Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO.
Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that,
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?
Pan. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.
Ant. Why, what of him?