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.
Pan. Where should I lose my tongue?
Launce. In thy tale.
Pan. 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.
Pan. Come; come away, man—I was sent to call thee.
Launce. Sir—call me what thou dar’st.
Pan. Wilt thou go?
Launce. Well, I will go.
Exeunt.
¶
Scene IV
Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio, Speed.
Sil. Servant!
Val. Mistress?
Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.
Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love.
Speed. Not of you.
Val. Of my mistress then.
Speed. ’Twere good you knock’d him.
[Exit.]
Sil. Servant, you are sad.
Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so.
Thu. Seem you that you are not?
Val. Happ’ly I do.
Thu. So do counterfeits.
Val. So do you.
Thu. What seem I that I am not?
Val. Wise.
Thu. What instance of the contrary?
Val. Your folly.
Thu. And how quote you my folly?
Val. I quote it in your jerkin.
Thu. My jerkin is a doublet.
Val. Well then I’ll double your folly.
Thu. How?
Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio? do you change color?
Val. Give him leave, madam, he is a kind of chameleon.
Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air.
Val. You have said, sir.
Thu. Ay, sir, and done too—for this time.
Val. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.
Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.
Val. ’Tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver.
Sil. Who is that, servant?
Val. 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.
Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.
Val. 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.
Sil. 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?
Val.
My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.
Duke.
Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?
Val.
Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
To be of worth and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.
Duke.
Hath he not a son?
Val.
Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves
The honor and regard of such a father.
Duke.
You know him well?
Val.
I knew him as myself: for from our infancy
We have convers’d and spent our hours together,
And though myself have been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
Yet hath Sir Proteus (for that’s his name)
Made use and fair advantage of his days;
His years but young, but his experience old;
His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe;
And in a word (for far behind his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow),
He is complete in feature and in mind
