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.
[Takes the letter.]
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, ’tis 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 bass.
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 fing’ring them, to anger me.
Luc.
She makes it strange, but she would be best pleas’d
To be so ang’red with another letter.
[Exit.]
Jul.
Nay, would I were so ang’red 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.
Look, 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.
And 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.
[Enter Lucetta.]
Luc.
Madam,
Dinner is 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?
Exeunt.
¶
Scene
