SCENE I. Verona. An Open Place

Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS

Valentine. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus;
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
Were 't not affection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad
Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

But since thou lov'st, love still and thrive therein,
Even as I would when I do love begin.

ΙΟ

Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest
Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel;
Wish me partaker in thy happiness

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

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,

For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Valentine. And on a love-book pray for my success? Proteus. Upon some book I love I 'll pray for thee. Valentine. That 's on some shallow story of deep

love,

How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.

Proteus. That's a deep story of a deeper love, For he was more than over shoes in love.

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Valentine. 'T is true; for you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Proteus. Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots. Valentine. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

Proteus.

What?

Valentine. To be in love, where scorn is bought with

groans,

Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's

mirth

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.

If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;

If lost, why then a grievous labour won;

However, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

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Proteus. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

Valentine. So, by your circumstance, I fear you 'll

prove.

Proteus. 'T is love you cavil at; I am not Love. Valentine. Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool,

Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

Proteus. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

Valentine. And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,

Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.

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But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee
That art a votary to fond desire?

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

Proteus. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. Valentine. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters

Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
And I likewise will visit thee with mine.

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Proteus. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! Valentine. As much to you at home! and so, fare

well.

[Exit.

Proteus. He after honour hunts, I after love; He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends and all, for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought, Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

Enter SPEED

Speed. Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master? Proteus. But now he parted hence, to embark for

Milan.

Speed. Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already, And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.

Proteus. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be a while away.

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Speed. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep?

Proteus. I do.

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

Proteus. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.
Speed. This proves me still a sheep.

Proteus. True, and thy master a shepherd.
Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.
Proteus. It shall go hard but I'll prove it by an-
other.

Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master,

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and my master seeks not me: therefore I am no

sheep.

Proteus. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; 90 thou for wages followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep. Speed. Such another proof will make me cry baa. Proteus. But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia?

Speed. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour.

Proteus. Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.

Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her.

Proteus. Nay, in that you are astray; 't were best pound you.

Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter.

Proteus. You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold.

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Speed. From a pound to a pin? fold it over and

over,

"T is threefold too little for carrying a letter to your

lover.

Proteus. But what said she?

Speed. [First nodding] Ay.

Proteus. Nod ay—why, that's noddy.

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