Ant. Good company: with them shall Protheus go: And in good time: now will we breake with him

Pro. Sweet Loue, sweet lines, sweet life, Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for loue, her honors paune; O that our Fathers would applaud our loues To seale our happinesse with their consents

Pro. Oh heauenly Iulia

Ant. How now? What Letter are you reading there? Pro. May't please your Lordship, 'tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine; Deliuer'd by a friend, that came from him

Ant. Lend me the Letter: Let me see what newes

Pro. There is no newes (my Lord) but that he writes How happily he liues, how well-belou'd, And daily graced by the Emperor; Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune

Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish? Pro. As one relying on your Lordships will, And not depending on his friendly wish

Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish: Muse not that I thus sodainly proceed; For what I will, I will, and there an end: I am resolu'd, that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus, in the Emperors Court: What maintenance he from his friends receiues, Like exhibition thou shalt haue from me, To morrow be in readinesse, to goe, Excuse it not: for I am peremptory

Pro. My Lord I cannot be so soone prouided, Please you deliberate a day or two

Ant. Look what thou want'st shalbe sent after thee: No more of stay: to morrow thou must goe; Come on Panthino; you shall be imployd, To hasten on his Expedition

Pro. Thus haue I shund the fire, for feare of burning, And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd. I fear'd to shew my Father Iulias Letter, Least he should take exceptions to my loue, And with the vantage of mine owne excuse Hath he excepted most against my loue. Oh, how this spring of loue resembleth The vncertaine glory of an Aprill day, Which now shewes all the beauty of the Sun, And by and by a clowd takes all away

Pan. Sir Protheus, your Fathers call's for you, He is in hast, therefore I pray you go

Pro. Why this it is: my heart accords thereto, And yet a thousand times it answer's no.

Exeunt. Finis.

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

All Pages of This Book