That my mafter being fcribe, to himself should write the

letter?
Val. How now, fir ? what are you reasoning with

yourself?
Spe. Nay, I was riming ; 'tis you that have the reason.
Pal. To do what?
Spe. To be a spokesman from madam Silvia.
Pal. To whom?
Spr. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figare.
Val. What figure?
Spe. By a letter, I should say.
Vel. Why, the bath not writ to me.

Spe. What need the, when he hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jeft?

Dal. No, believe me.

Spe. No believing you indeed, fir: But did you perceive her earneft?

Val. She gave me none, except an angry word.
Spe. Why, the hath given you a letter:
Val. That's the letter I writ to her friend.
Spe. And that letter hath the deliverd, and there an
Pal, I would it were no worse,

[end.
Spe. I'll warrant you 'tis as well:
. For often have you writ to her; and the, in modefty,
• Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
• Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind

discover,
• Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her

Jover.'
All this I speak in print, før in print I found it.-
Why muse you, fir? 'tis dinner-time.

Val. I have din'd.

Spe. Ay, but bearken, fir; though the cameleon love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourilh'd by my vi&tuals, and would fain have meat: O, be not like your miftress; be moved, be moved.

(Exeunt.

6

There is an uncommon, but no unnatural idea, in Silvia's device, of getting her lover to write for ber to himself, and Speed arcbly infinuates an explanation,

SCENE II. Verona. Room in Julia's House.

Enter Protheos, and Julia.
Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia *
Jul. I must, where is no remedy.
Pro. When poflibly I can, I will return.

Jul. If you turn not, you will return the fooner.
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's fake.

[giving a ring Pro. Why, then we'll make exchange;

here take you Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. [this.

Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy:
And when that hour o’er-flips me in the day,
Wherein I figh not, Julia, for thy fake,
The next ensaiog hour fome foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness !
My father ftays my coming; answer not;
The tide is now : nay, not thy tide of tears ;
That tide will fay me longer than I lhould.
Julia, farewel.What, gone without a word ?

[Exit Julia.
Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter Panthino.
Pan. Sir Protheus, you are itay'd for.
Pro. Go, I come:
Alas, this parting ftrikes poor lovers dumb. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. The fame. A Street.

Enter Launce, with a Dog in a String.
Lau. Ņay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done

weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault: I have receiv'd my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with fir Protheus to the imperial's court. I think, Crab my dog be the foureft-natur'd dog that lives :

* This little scene bas the complexion of Romeo and Juliet parting in the garden, after the former has killed Mercutio ; we have as much of the pathos here as could be expected; but we have had no clear idea bow Prorbeus and Julia have made their iptimacy so perfect.

my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruelhearted cur Thed one tear : he is a stone, a very pibbleStone, and has no more pity in him than a dog; a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandame, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll now you the manner of it: This shoe is my father ;-no, this left Moe is my father ; - no, no, this left shoe is my mother ;-—nay, that cannot be so neither ;-yes, it is so, it is so; it hath the worser Cole : This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother; and this, my father : A vengeance on't! there 'tis : now, fir, this staff is my filter ; for, look you, le is as white as a lilly, and as small as a wand : this hat is Nan our maid: I am the dog ;- no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,-0, the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so, so: Now come I to my father, Father, your blessing ; now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping ; now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on : now come I to my mother ;-0, that she could speak now, like a wode woman !-well, I kiss her ;-why, there 'tis ; here's my mother's breath up and dowo : now come I to my fifter; mark the moan fhe makes : now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

Enter Panthino.

Pan. Launce! away, away, aboard ; thy master is fhip’d, and thou art to. poft after with oars : What's the matter? why weep't thou, man? Away, ass; you'll lose the tide, if you tarry any longer.

Lau. It is no matter, if the tyd were loft ; for it is the unkindest ty'd that ever any man ty’d.

Pan. What's the unkindert tide ?

Lau.. Why, he that's ty'd here ; Crab, my dog. • Launce's soliloquy bas throughout a great share of pleasantry, but cannot be successfully delivered, or agreeably read, without clear conception and sound judgment --The animadverfions on bis dog are admirables

Pan. Tut, man! I mean, thou'lt lose the food; and, in lofing the flood, lose thy voyage; and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and, in lofing thy master, lose thy fervice; and, in lofing thy service, -Why doft thou stop my

mouth? Lar. For fear thou should't lose thy tongue. « Pan. Where Tould I lose my tongue ? “ Lau. In thy tale. · “ Pan. In thy tail ?

« Lar. Lose che tide, and the voyage, and the master, " and the service? Why, man, if the river were dry, “ I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were “ down, I could drive the boat with my fighs.

Pan. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.

Lau.. Sir, call me what thou dar'i,
Par. Wilt thou go?
Lau. Well, I will go.

[Exeunt. SCENE IV. Milan. A Room in the Duke's Palace.

Ester Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. “ Sil. Servant, « Val. Mistress ?

[they couver fe apart. “ Spe. Mafter, fir Thurio frowns on you. “ Val. Ay, boy, it's for love.

Spe. Not of you. “ Kal. Of my mistress then.

Spe. "Twere good you knock'd him. “ Sil. Servant,

you are sad. “ Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. “ Tbu. Seem you that you are not? “ Val. Haply, I do. “ Thu. So do counterfeits. « Val. So do you. “ Tby. What seem I, that I am not ? « Val. Wife. “ Tbu. What instance of the contrary? • Val. Your folly. « Tbu. And how quote you my folly? “ Val. I quote it in your jerkin. “ Tbk. My jerkin is a doublet. “ Val. Well then, r’u double your folly.

to be. How? “ Sil. What, angry, fir Thurio ? do you change colour?

« Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of ca66 meleon.

“ Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood, " than live in your air.

“ Pal. You have said, fr. “ Tbu. Ay, fir, and done too, for this time, [gin. " Val. I know it well, fir; you always end ere you be

“ Sil. A fine volley of worda, gentlemen, and quick“ ly lot off..

« Val. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. " Sil. Who is that, fervanti

« Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fixe : « for Thurio borrows his wit from your lady ship's looks, “ and spends what be borrows kindly in your company.

“ Tbu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I * shall nake your wit bankrupt.

“ Val. I know it well, fir: you have an exchequer of “ words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your as followers ; for it appears by their bare liveries, that “ they live by your bare words.

« Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more ; here comes

my father,

Enter Duke, attended *.
Duk. Now, daughter Silvia? you are hard beset.
Sir Valentine, your father's in good health :
What say you to a letter from

your friends, Of much good news ?

Val. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence.

Duk. Know you don Antonio, your countryman ?

Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
To be of worth, and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.

Duk. Hath he not a fon?

Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son, that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father.

• We could with the scene to begin here with the Duke meeting his daughter, 6c, as what precedes is exceedingly ebildish,