Sonne, and am going with Sir Protheus to the Imperialls
Court: I thinke Crab my dog, be the sowrest natured
dogge that liues: My Mother weeping: my Father
wayling: my Sister crying: our Maid howling: our
Catte wringing her hands, and all our house in a great
perplexitie, yet did not this cruell-hearted Curre shedde
one teare: he is a stone, a very pibble stone, and has no
more pitty in him then a dogge: a Iew would haue wept
to haue seene our parting: why my Grandam hauing
no eyes, looke you, wept her selfe blinde at my parting:
nay, Ile shew you the manner of it. This shooe is my father:
no, this left shooe is my father; no, no, this left
shooe is my mother: nay, that cannot bee so neyther:
yes; it is so, it is so: it hath the worser sole: this shooe
with the hole in it, is my mother: and this my father:
a veng’ance on’t, there’tis: Now sir, this staffe is my sister:
for, looke you, she is as white as a lilly, and as
small as a wand: this hat is Nan our maid: I am the
dogge: no, the dogge is himselfe, and I am the dogge:
oh, the dogge is me, and I am my selfe: I; so, so: now
come I to my Father; Father, your blessing: now
should not the shooe speake a word for weeping:
now should I kisse my Father; well, hee weepes on:
Now come I to my Mother: Oh that she could speake
now, like a would-woman: well, I kisse her: why
there’tis; heere’s my mothers breath vp and downe:
Now come I to my sister; marke the moane she makes:
now the dogge all this while sheds not a teare: nor
speakes a word: but see how I lay the dust with my
Launce, away, away: a Boord: thy Master is
ship’d, and thou art to post after with oares; what’s the
matter? why weep’st thou man? away asse, you’l loose
the Tide, if you tarry any longer.
It is no matter if the tide were lost, for it is the
vnkindest Tide, that euer any man tide.
What’s the vnkindest tide?
Why, he that’s tide here, Crab my dog.
Tut, man: I meane thou’lt loose the flood, and
in loosing the flood, loose thy voyage, and in loosing thy
voyage, loose thy Master, and in loosing thy Master,
loose thy seruice, and in loosing thy seruice: —why
dost thou stop my mouth?
For feare thou shouldst loose thy tongue
Where should I loose my tongue?
In thy Tale.
In thy Taile.
Loose the Tide, and the voyage, and the Master,
and the Seruice, and the tide: why man, if the Riuer
were drie, I am able to fill it with my teares: if the winde
were downe, I could driue the boate with my sighes.
Come: come away man, I was sent to call
Sir: call me what thou dar’st.
Wilt thou goe?
Enter Valentine, Siluia, Thurio, Speed. Duke, Protheus.
Master, Sir Thurio frownes on you.
I Boy, it’s for loue.
Not of you.
Of my Mistresse then.
Twere good you knockt him.
Seruant, you are sad.
Indeed, Madam, I seeme so.
Seeme you that you are not?
Hap’ly I doe.
So doe Counterfeyts.
So doe you.
What seeme I that I am not?
What instance of the contrary?
And how quoat you my folly?
I quoat it in your Ierkin.
My Ierkin is a doublet.
Well then, Ile double your folly.
What, angry, Sir Thurio, do you change colour?
Giue him leaue, Madam, he is a kind of Camelion.
That hath more minde to feed on your bloud,
then liue in your ayre.
You haue said Sir.
I Sir, and done too for this time.
I know it wel sir, you alwaies end ere you begin.
A fine volly of words, gentlemĕ, & quickly shot off.
Tis indeed, Madam, we thank the giuer.
Who is that Seruant?
Your selfe (sweet Lady) for you gaue the fire,
Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your Ladiships lookes,
And spends what he borrowes kindly in your company.
Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall
make your wit bankrupt
I know it well sir: you haue an Exchequer of words,
And I thinke, no other treasure to giue your followers:
For it appeares by their bare Liueries
That they liue by your bare words.
No more, gentlemen, no more:
Here comes my father.
Now, daughter Siluia, you are hard beset.
Sir Valentine, your father is in good health,
What say you to a Letter from your friends
Of much good newes?
My Lord, I will be thankfull,
To any happy messenger from thence.
Know ye Don Antonio, your Countriman?
I, my good Lord, I know the Gentleman
To be of worth, and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.
Hath he not a Sonne?
I, my good Lord, a Son, that well deserues
The honor, and regard of such a father.
You know him well?
I knew him as my selfe: for from our Infancie
We haue conuerst, and spent our howres together,
And though my selfe haue beene an idle Trewant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To cloath mine age with Angel-like perfection:
Yet hath Sir Protheus (for that’s his name)
Made vse, and faire aduantage of his daies:
His yeares but yong, but his experience old:
His head vn-mellowed, but his Iudgement ripe;
And in a word (for far behinde his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow.)