ACT IV. SCENE 2. Milan. The sourt of the DUKE'S palace.
Already have I been false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the colour of commending him,
I have access my own love to prefer:
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
When I protest true loyalty to her,
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;
When to her beauty I commend my vows,
She bids me think how I have been forsworn
In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd;
And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love
The more it grows and fawneth on her still.
But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window,
And give some evening music to her ear.
[Enter THURIO and Musicians.]
How now, Sir Proteus! are you crept before us?
Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go.
Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.
Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.
Ay, Silvia, for your sake.
I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,
Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.
[Enter Host, and JULIA in boy's clothes.]
Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray you,
why is it?
Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.
Come, we'll have you merry; I'll bring you where you shall
hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked for.
But shall I hear him speak?
Ay, that you shall.
That will be music. [Music plays.]
Is he among these?
Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em.
Who is Silvia? What is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help'd, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling.
' To her let us garlands bring.
How now, are you sadder than you were before?
How do you, man? The music likes you not.
You mistake; the musician likes me not.
Why, my pretty youth?
He plays false, father.
How? out of tune on the strings?
Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very
You have a quick ear.
Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.
I perceive you delight not in music.
Not a whit, — when it jars so.
Hark! what fine change is in the music!
Ay, that change is the spite.