The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
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come, I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 3. The same. A street
[Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog.]
LAUNCE. Nay, ‘twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity; yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog; a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoe is my father; no, no, left shoe is my mother; nay, that cannot be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. 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.