You would have them always play but one thing?
I would always have one play but one thing.
But, Host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,
Often resort unto this gentlewoman?
I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her out of
Where is Launce?
Gone to seek his dog, which to-morrow, by his master's
command, he must carry for a present to his lady.
Peace! stand aside: the company parts.
Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead
That you shall say my cunning drift excels.
Where meet we?
At Saint Gregory's well.
[Exeunt THURIO and Musicians.]
[Enter SILVIA above, at her window.]
Madam, good even to your ladyship.
I thank you for your music, gentlemen.
Who is that that spake?
One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.
Sir Proteus, as I take it.
Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.
What's your will?
That I may compass yours.
You have your wish; my will is even this,
That presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man!
Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seduced by thy flattery,
That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,
And by and by intend to chide myself
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.
I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;
But she is dead.
[Aside] 'Twere false, if I should speak it;
For I am sure she is not buried.
Say that she be; yet Valentine, thy friend,
Survives, to whom, thyself art witness,
I am betroth'd; and art thou not asham'd
To wrong him with thy importunacy?
I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.
And so suppose am I; for in his grave,
Assure thyself my love is buried.
Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence;
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.
[Aside] He heard not that.
Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,
The picture that is hanging in your chamber;
To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep;
For, since the substance of your perfect self
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow;
And to your shadow will I make true love.
[Aside] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it
And make it but a shadow, as I am.
I am very loath to be your idol, sir;
But since your falsehood shall become you well
To worship shadows and adore false shapes,
Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it;
And so, good rest.
As wretches have o'ernight
That wait for execution in the morn.
[Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA, above.]
Host, will you go?
By my halidom, I was fast asleep.
Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?
Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day.
Not so; but it hath been the longest night
That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest.