Pro. Wilt thou be gone? fweet Valentine, adieu; Think on thy Protheus, when thou, haply, feeft Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel: With me partaker in thy happiness,

When thou doft meet good hap; and in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,

Commend thy grievance to my holy Prayer;
For I will be thy bead's-man, Valentine.
Val. And on a love-book

my

fuccefs?

pray for
Pro. Upon fome book I love, I'll pray for thee.
Val. That's on fome fhallow ftory of deep love,
How young Leander cross'd the Hellefpont.

Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love;

For he was more than over fhoes in love.

Val. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never fwom the Hellefpont.

Pro. Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots. (2)
Val. No, I will not; for it boots thee not.

Pro. What?

Val. To be in love, where fcorn is bought with groans; Coy looks, with heart-fore fighs; one fading moment's mirth,

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.

If haply won, perhaps, an hapless gain:
If loft, why then a grievous labour won;
However, but a folly bought with wit;
Or elfe a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro. So, by your circumftance, you call me fool.
Val. So, by your circumftance, I fear, you'll prove.
Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not love.

you.

Val. Love is your mafter; for he masters
And he that is fo yoaked by a fool,
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wife.
Pro. Yet writers fay, as in the fweeteft bud
The eating canker dwells; fo eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

(2) nay, give me not the Boots.] A proverbial Expreffion, tho' now difus'd, fignifying, don't make a laughing Stock of me; don't play upon me. The French have a Phrase, Bailler foin en Corne; which Cotgrave thus interprets, To give one the Boots; to fell him a Bargain.

Val. And writers fay, as the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker, ere it blow;
Even fo by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly, blafting in the bud;
Lofing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore wafte I time to counfel thee,
That art a votary to fond defire?

Once more, adieu: my father at the road
Expects my coming, there to fee me shipp'd.

Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
Val. Sweet Protheus, no: now let us take our leave.
At Milan, let me hear from thee by letters
Of thy fuccefs in love; and what news elfe
Betideth here in absence of thy friend :
And I likewife will vifit thee with mine.
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
Val. As much to you at home; and fo, farewel! [Exit.
Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love;
He leaves his friends to dignify them more;
I leave my felf, my friends, and all for love.
Thou, Julia, thou haft metamorphos'd me;
Made me neglect my ftudies, lofe my time,
War with good counsel, fet the world at nought;
Made wit with mufing weak; heart fick with thought,

Enter Speed.

Speed. Sir Protheus, fave you; faw you my mafter? Pro. But now he parted hence, t'imbark for Milan. Speed. Twenty to one then he is fhipp'd already, And I have play'd the fheep in lofing him.

Pro. Indeed, a fheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be awhile away.

Speed. You conclude that my mafter is a fhepherd then, and I a fheep?

Pro. I do.

Speed. Why then my horns are his horns, whether I wake or fleep.

Pro. A filly answer, and fitting well a fheep.
Speed. This proves me ftill a fheep.

Pro.

Pro. True; and thy mafter a fhepherd.

Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. Pro. It fhall go hard, but I'll prove it by another. Speed. The thepherd feeks the fheep, and not the fheep the shepherd; but I feek my master, and my mafter feeks not me; therefore I am no fheep.

Pro. The fheep for fodder follows the fhepherd, the fhepherd for food follows not the theep; thou for wages followeft thy mafter, thy master for wages fol-' lows not thee; therefore thou art a fheep.

Speed. Such another proof will make me cry Bad. Pro. But doft thou hear? gaveft thou my letter to Julia?

Speed. Ay, Sir, I, a loft mutton, gave your letter to her, a lac'd mutton (23); and fhe, a lac'd mutton, gave me, a loft mutton, nothing for my labour.

Pro. Here's too fmall a pafture for such store of mut

tons.

Speed. If the ground be over-charg'd, you were beft ftick her.

Pro. Nay, in that you are a ftray (4); 'twere best pound you. Speed.

(3) I, a loft Mutton, gave your Letter to her, a lac'd Mutton ;] Launce calls himself a loft Mutton, because he had loft his Mafter, and because Proteus had been proving him a Sheep. But why does he call the Lady a lac'd Mutton? Your notable Wenchers are to this day call'd Muttonmongers: and confequently the Object of their Paffion muit, by the Metaphor, be the Mutton. And Cotgrave, in his English-French Dictionary, explains Lac'd Mutton, Une Garfe, putain, fille de Joye. And Mr. Motteux has render'd this Paffage of Rabelais, in the Prologue of his fourth Book, Cailles coiphées mignonnement chantans, in this manner; Coated Quails and laced Mutton waggishly finging. So that lac'd Mutton has been a fort of standard Phrafe for Girls of Pleafure. (I fhall explain Cailles coiphées in its proper Place, upon a Paffage of Troilus and Creffida.) That lac'd Mutton was a Term in Vogue before our Author appear'd in Writing, I find from an old Play, printed in Black Letter in the Year 1578, call'd Promos and Caffandra: in which a Courtezan's Servant thus fpeaks to her;

Prying abroad for Playefellowes, and fuch,
For you, Miftreffe, I hearde of one Phallax,
A Man efteemde of Promos verie much:
Of whofe Nature I was fo bolde to axe,
And I fmealte, he lov'd lafe mutton well.

(4) Nay, in that you are altray.] For the Reason Proteus gives, Dr.

Thirlby

Speed. Nay, Sir, lefs than a pound thall ferve me for carrying your letter.

Pro. You mistake: I mean the pound, a pin-fold.

Speed. From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over, 'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.

Pro. But what faid she; did she nod? [Speed nods. Speed. I,

Pro. Nod-I? why, that's noddy.

Speed. You miftook, Sir; I faid, fhe did nod: And you ask me, if fhe did nod; and I faid, I. Pro. And that fet together, is noddy.

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to fet it toge ther, take it for your pains.

Pre. No, no, you fhall have it for bearing the letter. Speed. Well, I perceive, I must be fain to bear with you.

Pro. Why, Sir, how do you bear with me? Speed. Marry, Sir, the letter very orderly; Having nothing but the word noddy for my pains. Pro. Behrew me, but you have a quick wit. Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your flow purse. Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief; what faid the?

Speed. Open your purfe, that the mony and the matter may be both at once deliver❜d.

Pro. Well, Sir, here is for your pains, what faid fhe? Speed. Truly, Sir, I think, you'll hardly win her. Pro. Why? could'st thou perceive so much from her? Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; No, not fo much as a ducket for delivering your letter. And being fo hard to me that brought your mind, I fear, she'll prove as hard to you in telling her mind. Give her no token but ftones; for fhe's as hard as steel. Pro. What, faid the nothing?

Speed. No, not fo much as take this for thy pains: To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have teftern'd me:

Thirlby advises that We should read, a Stray; i. e. a ftray Sheep; which continues Proteus's Banter upon Speed.

In requital whereof, henceforth carry your letter your
felf: and fo, Sir, I'll commend you to my mafter.
Pro. Go, go, be gone, to fave your fhip from wrack,
Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,
Being deftin'd to a drier death on fhore.
I must go fend fome better messenger:
I fear, my Julia would not deign my lines,
Receiving them from fuch a worthless poft.

[Exeunt feverally.

SCENE changes to JULIA's chamber.

Jul.

B

Enter Julia and Lucetta.

UT fay, Lucetta, now we are alone,

are

Would't thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Luc. Ay, madam, fo you ftumble not unheedfully. Jul. Of all the fair refort of gentlemen, That ev'ry day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthieft love?

Luc. Please you, repeat their names; I'll fhew my mind,

According to my fhallow fimple skill.

Jul. What think'ft thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? Luc. As of a Knight well spoken, neat and fine, But were I you, he never fhould be mine.

Jul. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio? Luc. Well of his wealth; but of himself, fo, fo. Jul. What think'st thou of the gentle Protheus? Luc. Lord, lord! to fee what folly reigns in us! Jul. How now? what means this paffion at his name? Luc. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a paffing shame, That I, unworthy body as I am,

Should cenfure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Jul. Why not on Protheus, as of all the reft?
Luc. Then thus; of many good, I think him best.

Jul. Your reafon?

Luc. I have no other but a woman's reafon

I think him fo, because I think him fo.

Jul. And would't thou have me caft my love on him?

Luc.