My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,
And flaves they are to me, that fend them flying:
Oh, could their mafter come and go as lightly,

Himfelf would lodge, where fenfeless 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 my felf do want my fervant's fortune':

I curfe my felf, for they are fent by me;

That they should harbour, where their lord would be.

What's here? Silvia, this night will I enfranchise thee:
'Tis fo; and here's the ladder for the purpofe.
Why, Phaeton, for thou art Merops' fon,
Wilt thou afpire to guide the heav'nly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! over-weening flave!
Bestow thy fawning smiles 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 beftow'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:

Be gone, I will not hear thy vain excufe,

But as thou lov'ft thy life, make speed from hence. [Exit.
Val. And why not death, rather than living torment?
To die, is to be banish'd from my self,

And Silvia is my felf; banish'd from her,
Is felf from felf: a deadly banishment!
What light is light, if Silvia be not feen?
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

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 alive.
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 feest thou?

Laun. Him we go to find:

There's not an hair on's head, but 'tis a Valentine.
Pro. Valentine,-

Val. No.

Pro. Who then; his fpirit?

Val. Neither..

Pro. What then?

Val. Nothing.

Laun. Can nothing speak? mafter, shall I strike?
Pro. Whom wouldst thou ftrike?

Laun. Nothing.

Pro. Villain, forbear.

Laun. Why, Sir, 'I'll ftrike nothing; I pray you,— Pro. Ifay, forbear: friend Valentine, a word.

Val. My ears are ftopt, 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, untuneable, 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 have forfworn me! What is your news?

Laun. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are vanish'd.

Pre. That thou art banish'd; oh, that is the news,

From

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.
Val. Oh, I have fed upon this woe already;
And now excess of it will make me furfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro. Ay, ay; and the hath offer'd to the doom,
Which unrevers'd ftands in effectual force,
A fea of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those at her father's churlish feet the tender'd,
With them, upon her knees, her humble felf;
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them,
As if but now they waxed pale for wo.

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
Sad fighs, deep groans, nor filver-thedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompaffionate Sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, muft die.
Befides, her interceffion chaf'd him fo,
When the for thy repeal was fuppliant,
That to close prifon he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val. No more; unless the next word, that thou speak'ft,
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;. Befides, thy ftaying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover's ftaff; 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 thy felf, Regard thy danger, and along with me.

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,

ni

Bid him make hafte, and meet me at the north-gate. Pro. Go, Sirrah, find him out: come, Valentine. Val. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!

[Exeunt Val. and Pro. Laun. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think my mafter 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 fhall not pluck that from me, nor who 'tis I love, and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not tell my felf, and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for the 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-spaniel, which is much in a bare christian. Here is the cat-log [Pulling out a paper] of her conditions; imprimis, the can fetch and carry; why, a horfe can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is the better than a jade. Item, fhe 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. (12) Speed. Well, your old vice ftill; miftake the word: what news then in your paper?

Laun. The blackeft news that ever thou heard'st.
Speed. Why, man, how black?
Laun. Why, as black as ink.
Speed. Let me read them.

(12) With my Mafterfhip? why, it is at Sea] These poetical Editors are pleasant Gentlemen to let this pals without any Sufpicion. For how does Launce mistake the Word? Speed asks him about his Masterfhip, and he replies to it litteratìm. But then how was his Mastership at Sea, and on Shore too? The Addition of a Letter and a Note of Apoftrophe make Launce both mistake the Word, and fets the Pun right: It reftores, indeed, but a mean Joke; but, without it, there is no Senfe in the Paffage. Befides, it is in Character with the reft of the Scene; and I dare be confident, the Poet's own Conceit.

Laun.

Laun. Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou can'ft 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 grand-mother; this proves, that thou canst not read. Speed. Come, fool, come, try me in thy paper. Laun. There, and S. Nicholas be thy speed! Speed. Imprimis, the can milk.

Laun. Ay, that the can.

Speed. Item, the brews good ale.

Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, Bleffing of your

beart, you brew good ale.

Speed. Item, the can fowe.

Laun. That's as much as to fay, can the fo?

Speed. Item, fhe can knit.

Laun. What need a man care for a stock with wench, when the can knit him a ftock!

Speed. Item, fhe can wash and scour.

Laun. A fpecial virtue, for then the need not to be

wath'd and fcour'd.

Speed. Item, the can fpin.

Laun. Then may I fet the world on wheels, when fhe can fpin for her living.

Speed. Item, he hath many nameless virtues.

Laun. That's as much as to fay, Baftard Virtues 3 that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have

no names.

Speed. Here follow her vices.

Laun. Clofe at the heels of her virtues.

Speed. Item, fhe is not to be kist fasting, in respect

of her breath.

Laun. Well, that fault may be mended with a break faft: read on.

Speed. Item, fhe hath a sweet mouth.

Laun. That makes amends for her four breath.

Speed. Item, the doth talk in her fleep.

Laun. It's no matter for that, fo fhe fleep not in

her talk.

Speed. Item, fhe is flow in words..
VOL. I.

Laun.