them,

Because myself do want my servants’ fortune.

I curse myself for they are sent by me,

That they should harbour where their lord should be.’

What’s here?

‘Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee’?

‘Tis so, and here’s the ladder for the purpose.

Why, Phaeton, for thou art Merops’ son

Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,

And with thy daring folly burn the world?

Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee?

Go, base intruder, over-weening slave,

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence.

Thank me for this more than for all the favours

Which, all too much, I have bestowed on thee.

But if thou linger in my territories

Longer than swiftest expedition

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever bore my daughter or thyself.

Be gone. I will not hear thy vain excuse,

But as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence.

Exit

VALENTINE

And why not death, rather than living torment?

To die is to be banished from myself,

And Silvia is my self. Banished from her

Is self from self, a deadly banishment.

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by—

Unless it be to think that she is by,

And feed upon the shadow of perfection.

Except I be by Silvia in the night

There is no music in the nightingale.

Unless I look on Silvia in the day

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence, and I leave to be

If I be not by her fair influence

Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive.

I fly not death to fly his deadly doom.

Tarry I here I but attend on death,

But fly I hence, I fly away from life.

Enter Proteus and Lance

PROTEUS Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

LANCE So-ho, so-ho!

PROTEUS What seest thou?

LANCE Him we go to find. There’s not a hair on’s head but ‘tis a Valentine.

PROTEUS Valentine?

VALENTINE No.

PROTEUS Who then—his spirit?

VALENTINE Neither.

PROTEUS What then?

VALENTINE Nothing.

LANCE Can nothing speak?

He threatens Valentine

Master, shall I strike?

PROTEUS Who wouldst thou strike?

LANCE Nothing.

PROTEUS Villain, forbear.

LANCE Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing. I pray you—

PROTEUS

Sirrah, I say forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

VALENTINE

My ears are stopped, and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possessed them.

PROTEUS

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.

VALENTINE

Is Silvia dead?

PROTEUS No, Valentine.

VALENTINE

No Valentine indeed, for sacred Silvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

PROTEUS

No, Valentine.

VALENTINE

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.

What is your news?

LANCE Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

PROTEUS

That thou art banished. O that’s the news:

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

VALENTINE

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banishèd?

PROTEUS

Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom,

Which unreversed stands in effectual force,

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears.

Those at her father’s churlish feet she tendered,

With them, upon her knees, her humble self,

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them

As if but now they waxed pale, for woe.

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire,

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chafed him so

When she for thy repeal was suppliant

That to close prison he commanded her,

With many bitter threats of biding there.

VALENTINE

No more, unless the next word that thou speak’st

Have some malignant power upon my life.

If so I pray thee breathe it in mine ear,

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

PROTEUS

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament‘st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

Here if thou stay thou canst not see thy love.

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

Hope is a lover’s staff. Walk hence with that,

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,

Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate.

Come, I’ll convey thee through the city gate,

And ere I part with thee confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love affairs.

As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself,