Lu. What would your Ladiship? Iul. Is't neere dinner time? Lu. I would it were, That you might kill your stomacke on your meat, And not vpon your Maid

Iu. What is't that you Tooke vp so gingerly? Lu. Nothing

Iu. Why didst thou stoope then? Lu. To take a paper vp, that I let fall

Iul. And is that paper nothing? Lu. Nothing concerning me

Iul. Then let it lye, for those that it concernes

Lu. Madam, it will not lye where it concernes, Vnlesse it haue a false Interpreter

Iul. Some loue of yours, hath writ to you in Rime

Lu. That I might sing it (Madam) to a tune: Giue me a Note, your Ladiship can set Iul. As little by such toyes, as may be possible: Best sing it to the tune of Light O, Loue

Lu. It is too heauy for so light a tune

Iu. Heauy? belike it hath some burden then? Lu. I: and melodious were it, would you sing it, Iu. And why not you? Lu. I cannot reach so high

Iu. Let's see your Song: How now Minion? Lu. Keepe tune there still; so you will sing it out: And yet me thinkes I do not like this tune

Iu. You doe not? Lu. No (Madam) tis too sharpe

Iu. You (Minion) are too saucie

Lu. Nay, now you are too flat; And marre the concord, with too harsh a descant: There wanteth but a Meane to fill your Song

Iu. The meane is dround with you vnruly base

Lu. Indeede I bid the base for Protheus

Iu. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me; Here is a coile with protestation: Goe, get you gone: and let the papers lye: You would be fingring them, to anger me

Lu. She makes it stra[n]ge, but she would be best pleas'd To be so angred with another Letter

Iu. Nay, would I were so angred with the same: Oh hatefull hands, to teare such louing words; Iniurious Waspes, to feede on such sweet hony, And kill the Bees that yeelde it, with your stings; Ile kisse each seuerall paper, for amends: Looke, here is writ, kinde Iulia: vnkinde Iulia, As in reuenge of thy ingratitude, I throw thy name against the bruzing-stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdaine. And here is writ, Loue wounded Protheus. Poore wounded name: my bosome, as a bed, Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal'd; And thus I search it with a soueraigne kisse. But twice, or thrice, was Protheus written downe: Be calme (good winde) blow not a word away, Till I haue found each letter, in the Letter, Except mine own name: That, some whirle-winde beare Vnto a ragged, fearefull, hanging Rocke, And throw it thence into the raging Sea. Loe, here in one line is his name twice writ: Poore forlorne Protheus, passionate Protheus: To the sweet Iulia: that ile teare away: And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it, to his complaining Names; Thus will I fold them, one vpon another; Now kisse, embrace, contend, doe what you will

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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