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Modern English
Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about.
Sir Thurio, please give us a moment, I ask; We have some private matters to discuss.
Now, tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me?
Now, tell me, Proteus, what do you want from me?
My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal; But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, This night intends to steal away your daughter: Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol’n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down, Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.
My gracious lord, what I want to reveal The rules of friendship tell me to keep secret; But when I think of all the kindnesses You’ve shown me, though I don’t deserve them, My sense of duty pushes me to say What otherwise no amount of good would make me speak. Know, noble prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, Plans to steal away your daughter tonight: I am one of the few who knows about the plan. I know you intend to give her to Thurio, Whom your daughter cannot stand; And if she’s taken from you like this, It will cause you a great deal of pain. So, out of duty, I have chosen To stop my friend from his intended plan Rather than keep silent and let you suffer A pile of sorrows that would crush you, And, if unprevented, send you to an early grave.
Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; Which to requite, command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court: But fearing lest my jealous aim might err And so unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d, I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be convey’d away.
Proteus, I thank you for your honest care; To repay you, ask anything you want while I live. I have often seen their love for each other, Perhaps when they thought I was fast asleep, And I’ve often planned to forbid Sir Valentine from seeing her and being in my court: But I feared my jealous suspicion might be wrong And unfairly dishonor the man, A rashness I’ve always tried to avoid, So I gave him kind looks, to see If I could discover what you’ve just told me. And to show you how much I fear this, Knowing how easily young hearts can be swayed, I keep her locked in an upper tower each night, The key of which I always hold; And from there, she can’t be taken away.
Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend And with a corded ladder fetch her down; For which the youthful lover now is gone And this way comes he with it presently; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; For love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence.
Know, noble lord, they’ve come up with a way For him to climb up to her window, And lower her down with a rope ladder; For this reason, the young lover has left, And he’s on his way here with the ladder now; If you wish, you can stop him. But, my lord, do it quietly So that it’s not obvious I was the one who revealed this. For my love for you, not hatred for my friend, Is why I’ve shared this plan.
Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this.
On my honor, he will never know That I learned this from you.
Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming.
Goodbye, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming.
Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?
Sir Valentine, where are you going so fast?
Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them.
If it pleases your grace, there is a messenger Waiting to take my letters to my friends, And I’m going to deliver them.
Be they of much import?
Are they very important?
The tenor of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court.
The meaning of these letters is just to tell me That I am well and happy being here at your court.
Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. ’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.
Never mind that, stay with me for a while; I need to discuss some matters with you That are very important to me, and you must keep them secret. It’s no secret that I have been trying To get my friend Sir Thurio married to my daughter.
I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?
I know, my Lord; and truly, the marriage Would be rich and honorable; besides, the gentleman Has all the qualities of virtue, generosity, worth, and character That would suit such a wife as your beautiful daughter: Can’t you, Your Grace, convince her to like him?
No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, Neither regarding that she is my child Nor fearing me as if I were her father; And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in: Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not.
No, trust me; she is difficult, moody, and rebellious, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, and doesn’t respect me, Not even considering that I am her father, Nor fearing me as if I were her father; And, if I may tell you, her pride, After careful thought, has made me stop loving her; And, where I thought the rest of my life Should be cared for by her child-like duty, I am now fully determined to take a wife And send her off to whoever will take her: Let her beauty be her dowry; She doesn’t care about me or my wealth.
What would your Grace have me to do in this?
What would you have me do about this, Your Grace?
There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy And nought esteems my aged eloquence: Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor-- For long agone I have forgot to court; Besides, the fashion of the time is changed-- How and which way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.
There is a lady here in Verona Whom I am interested in; but she is shy and reserved And doesn’t value my old-fashioned charm: So I want you to be my guide— For I have long forgotten how to court a lady; Besides, the ways of the time have changed— I need your help to figure out How I can present myself To be noticed in her bright, beautiful eyes.
Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman’s mind.
Win her with gifts, if she doesn’t respond to words: Silent jewels often speak louder than words And move a woman’s heart more than quick talk.
But she did scorn a present that I sent her.
But she rejected a gift I sent her.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o’er; For scorn at first makes after-love the more. If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For ’get you gone,’ she doth not mean ’away!’ Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
Sometimes a woman rejects what she actually wants. Send her another gift; don’t give up; For scorn at first only makes later love stronger. If she frowns, it’s not because she hates you, But rather to make you love her more: If she scolds you, it’s not because she wants you to leave; After all, fools are crazy when left alone. Don’t take no for an answer, whatever she says; When she says "go away," she doesn’t really mean it! Flatter her, praise her, compliment her, admire her beauty; Even if she’s not perfect, say she has the face of an angel. Any man who can’t win a woman with his words, I say, isn’t truly a man.
But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her.
But the lady I’m talking about is already promised to a young man Of good reputation, and her friends keep her away from men, So no man is allowed to visit her during the day.
Why, then, I would resort to her by night.
Well, then I would visit her at night.
Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night.
Yes, but the doors are locked and the keys are kept safe, So no man can get to her at night.
What lets but one may enter at her window?
What’s stopping someone from entering through her window?
Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life.
Her room is high up, far from the ground, And built in such a way that no one can climb it Without putting their life in danger.
Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower, So bold Leander would adventure it.
Then, a clever ladder made of ropes, With a couple of hooks to secure it, Could be used to scale a tower like Hero’s, And bold Leander would have done it.
Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder.
Now, since you are a gentleman of noble blood, Tell me where I can get such a ladder.
When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.
When would you use it? Please, sir, tell me that.
This very night; for Love is like a child, That longs for every thing that he can come by.
Tonight; because Love is like a child, Who wants everything he can get his hands on.
By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder.
By seven o’clock, I’ll get you a ladder like that.
But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: How shall I best convey the ladder thither?
But listen; I’ll go to her alone: How can I carry the ladder there?
It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length.
It will be light, my lord, so you can carry it Under any cloak that’s long enough.
A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?
Will a cloak like yours work for that?
Ay, my good lord.
Yes, my good lord.
Then let me see thy cloak: I’ll get me one of such another length.
Then let me see your cloak: I’ll get one like it.
Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.
Any cloak will do, my lord.
How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same? What’s here? ’To Silvia’! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once.
How should I wear a cloak? Please, let me try your cloak on. What’s this letter? What’s here? ’To Silvia’! And here’s something useful for my plan. I’ll be bold and break the seal this time.
’My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, And slaves they are to me that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them: While I, their king, that hither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless’d them, Because myself do want my servants’ fortune: I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would 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! overweening 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 bestow’d 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 lovest thy life, make speed from hence.
’My thoughts are with my Silvia every night, And they’re like slaves to me, flying off. Oh, if only their master could come and go as easily, He would stay where his thoughts are lying! My loyal thoughts rest in your pure heart: While I, their king, who send them here to you, Curse the luck that has blessed them with such grace, Because I lack the fortune they have. I curse myself for sending them, That they should be where their master wants to be.’ What’s this? ’Silvia, tonight I will free you.’ That’s it; and here’s the ladder for that. Why, Phaethon—because you’re Merops’ son— Do you think you can drive the sun’s chariot And burn the world with your reckless foolishness? Do you want to reach the stars just because they shine on you? Go, foolish intruder! Overconfident servant! Give your flattering smiles to your equals, And think that my patience, greater than your worth, Is a privilege that allows you to leave: Thank me for this more than for all the favours I’ve too freely given you. But if you stay in my lands Longer than the fastest messenger can bring you out, By heaven! My anger will far exceed the love I ever had for my daughter or for you. Leave! I won’t listen to your excuses; But, if you care about your life, hurry and leave.
And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish’d from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish’d 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 Foster’d, illumined, cherish’d, 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.
Why not choose death instead of this living torture? To die is to be separated from myself; And Silvia is myself: to be banished from her Is like being banished from myself: a deadly separation! What is light, if Silvia isn’t seen? What is joy, if Silvia isn’t there? Unless I think that she is near And live on the shadow of my perfect love. If I’m not with Silvia at night, There’s no music in the nightingale’s song; If I can’t see Silvia in the day, There’s no day for me to enjoy; She is my soul, and I cease to exist, If I’m not nourished, enlightened, cherished, and kept alive By her sweet influence. I don’t fear death, to avoid its deadly grip: If I stay here, I’m just waiting for death: But if I leave, I’m running away from life.
Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.
Run, boy, run, run, and find him.
Soho, soho!
Hey, hey!
What seest thou?
What do you see?
Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on’s head but ’tis a Valentine.
The person we’re looking for: there’s not a single hair on his head that isn’t Valentine.
Valentine?
Valentine?
No.
No.
Who then? his spirit?
Who then? His ghost?
Neither.
No, not even that.
What then?
Then what?
Nothing.
Nothing.
Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?
Can nothing speak? Master, should I strike?
Who wouldst thou strike?
Who would you strike?
Nothing.
Nothing.
Villain, forbear.
Scoundrel, stop.
Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing: I pray you,--
But, sir, I’ll strike nothing: I beg you—
Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.
I said, stop, fool. Valentine, a word.
My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath possess’d them.
My ears are blocked and can’t hear anything good, I’ve already heard too much bad.
Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable and bad.
Then in silent grief, I’ll keep this to myself, Because it’s too harsh, out of tune, and wrong.
Is Silvia dead?
Is Silvia dead?
No, Valentine.
No, Valentine.
No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me?
No Valentine, really, for the sake of Silvia. Has she sworn off my love?
No, Valentine.
No, Valentine.
No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news?
No Valentine, if Silvia has rejected me. What’s the news?
Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.
Sir, there’s an announcement that you’ve disappeared.
That thou art banished--O, that’s the news!-- From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend.
That you’ve been banished—oh, that’s the news! From here, from Silvia, and from me, your friend.
O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished?
Oh, I’ve already suffered through this pain, And now, it’s too much—it will overwhelm me. Does Silvia know I’ve been banished?
Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d 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 tender’d; 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.
Yes, yes; and she’s tried to undo it— Which, unless reversed, stands as a final punishment— A sea of melting pearls, which some call tears: She offered them at her father’s cruel feet; With them, on her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness made them look As if they just turned pale from sorrow: But neither bent knees, pure hands raised up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor tears of silver, Could move her heartless father; But Valentine, if he is caught, must die. Besides, her pleading angered him so, When she begged for your return, That he ordered her into prison, With many cruel threats about staying there.
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.
No more; unless the next thing you say Has some evil power over my life: If so, I beg you, whisper it in my ear, As the last song of my endless sorrow.
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 deliver’d 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 lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, Regard thy danger, and along with me!
Stop lamenting what you can’t change, And focus on solving what you mourn. Time is the healer and creator of all good things. If you stay here, you won’t see your love; Also, staying will shorten your life. Hope is a lover’s walking stick; take it with you And use it to fight off despairing thoughts. Your letters can still reach me, even though you’re gone; And if written to me, they’ll be delivered Straight to the pure heart of your love. Now isn’t the time to argue: Come, I’ll take you out through the city gate; And before we part, we’ll talk more About everything concerning your love. As you love Silvia, even if not for yourself, Consider your own safety, and come with me!
I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.
I beg you, Launce, if you see my boy, Tell him to hurry and meet me at the North gate.
Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.
Go, boy, find him. Come on, Valentine.
O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!
Oh my dear Silvia! Unfortunate Valentine!
I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that’s all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel; which is much in a bare Christian.
I’m just a fool, you see; but I’m clever enough to think my master is a bit of a scoundrel: but that’s the same, as long as he’s just one scoundrel. He’s not alive now who knows that I’m in love; but I am in love; but a team of horses won’t take that away from me; nor will it matter who it is I love; and yet it’s a woman; but which woman, I won’t tell even myself; and yet she’s a milkmaid; but she’s not a maiden, because she’s had gossiping friends; yet she’s a maiden, because she’s her master’s servant, and works for wages. She has more qualities than a water-spaniel; which is a lot for a plain Christian.
Here is the cate-log of her condition. ’Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.’ Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. ’Item: She can milk;’ look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.
Here’s the list of her qualities. First: She can fetch and carry.’ Well, a horse can do no more: actually, a horse can’t fetch, it can only carry; so she’s better than a horse. Next: She can milk;’ look, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.
How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership?
Hey, Launce! What’s the news with your master?
With my master’s ship? why, it is at sea.
With my master’s ship? Well, it’s at sea.
Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper?
Ah, still your old habit; you misunderstand the word. What ’s the news in your paper then?
The blackest news that ever thou heardest.
The worst news you’ve ever heard.
Why, man, how black?
Why, man, how bad?
Why, as black as ink.
As bad as ink.
Let me read them.
Let me read them.
Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read.
Shame on you, blockhead! you can’t read.
Thou liest; I can.
You’re wrong; I can.
I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?
I’ll test you. Tell me this: who was your father?
Marry, the son of my grandfather.
Well, the son of my grandfather.
O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read.
Oh, illiterate fool! It was the son of your grandmother: this proves you can’t read.
Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.
Come on, fool, come; test me with your list.
There; and St. Nicholas be thy speed!
Here; and may St. Nicholas help you!
[Reads] ’Imprimis: She can milk.’
[Reads] ’First: She can milk.’
Ay, that she can.
Yes, she can.
’Item: She brews good ale.’
’Next: She brews good beer.’
And thereof comes the proverb: ’Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.’
And that’s where the saying comes from: ’God bless you, you brew good beer.’
’Item: She can sew.’
’Next: She can sew.’
That’s as much as to say, Can she so?
That’s just another way of asking, "Can she sew?"
’Item: She can knit.’
’Next: She can knit.’
What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock?
Why would a man need a woman to knit him a sock when she can just knit him a whole pair?
’Item: She can wash and scour.’
’Next: She can wash and clean.’
A special virtue: for then she need not be washed and scoured.
A useful skill: because then she doesn’t need to be washed and cleaned herself.
’Item: She can spin.’
’Next: She can spin.’
Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.
Then I can make the whole world turn, if she can spin to earn a living.
’Item: She hath many nameless virtues.’
’Next: She has many unnamed virtues.’
That’s as much as to say, bastard virtues; that, indeed, know not their fathers and therefore have no names.
That’s another way of saying, she has questionable virtues, ones that don’t know their true origin and so don’t have proper names.
’Here follow her vices.’
’Here are her bad qualities.’
Close at the heels of her virtues.
Right after her good ones.
’Item: She is not to be kissed fasting in respect of her breath.’
’Note: She shouldn’t be kissed when she’s hungry because of her breath.’
Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.
Well, that can be fixed with breakfast. Keep reading.
’Item: She hath a sweet mouth.’
’Note: She has a sweet mouth.’
That makes amends for her sour breath.
That makes up for her bad breath.
’Item: She doth talk in her sleep.’
’Note: She talks in her sleep.’
It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.
That’s no problem, as long as she doesn’t talk while she’s asleep.
’Item: She is slow in words.’
’Note: She is slow to speak.’
O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue: I pray thee, out with’t, and place it for her chief virtue.
What a villain to put that in her bad qualities! Being slow to speak is a woman’s best quality. Please, take it out and list it as her best trait.
’Item: She is proud.’
’Note: She is proud.’
Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her.
Take that out too; it was Eve’s inheritance and can’t be taken away from her.
’Item: She hath no teeth.’
’Note: She has no teeth.’
I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.
I don’t care about that, because I like crusts.
’Item: She is curst.’
’Note: She is rude.’
Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.
Well, the best part is, she doesn’t have teeth to bite.
’Item: She will often praise her liquor.’
’Item: She will often praise her liquor.’
If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised.
If her drink is good, she’ll praise it; if she won’t, I will; because good things should be praised.
’Item: She is too liberal.’
’Item: She is too generous.’
Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.
She can’t be too generous with her words, because it says she’s slow to speak; she won’t be too generous with her money, because I’ll keep that shut: but with other things, maybe she can, and I can’t stop that. Anyway, keep going.
’Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.’
’Item: She has more hair than sense, and more faults than hairs, and more money than faults.’
Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.
Hold on; I’ll take her. She’s been mine, but also not mine, twice or thrice in that last part. Say it again.
’Item: She hath more hair than wit,’--
’Item: She has more hair than sense,’--
More hair than wit? It may be; I’ll prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next?
More hair than sense? Maybe; I’ll prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, so it’s more than the salt. The hair that hides the sense is more than the sense, because the bigger thing hides the smaller. What’s next?
’And more faults than hairs,’--
’And more faults than hairs,’--
That’s monstrous: O, that that were out!
That’s ridiculous: Oh, I wish that wasn’t true!
’And more wealth than faults.’
’And more wealth than faults.’
Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I’ll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,--
Well, that makes the faults sound better. Alright, I’ll take her; and if it’s a match, as nothing is impossible,--
What then?
What then?
Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate.
Then I’ll tell you--your master is waiting for you at the North gate.
For me?
For me?
For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee.
For you! Yeah, who are you? He’s waiting for someone better than you.
And must I go to him?
Do I really have to go to him?
Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.
You have to run to him, because you’ve stayed so long that just going won’t be enough now.
Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love letters!
Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Damn your love letters!
Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction.
Now he’ll be punished for reading my letter; what an impolite servant, barging in on secrets! I’ll follow him, to enjoy watching the boy get scolded.