The Complete Works of Shakespeare. William Shakespeare

love that do not show their love.

       Luc.

      O, they love least that let men know their love.

       Jul.

      I would I knew his mind.

       Luc.

      Peruse this paper, madam.

       Jul.

      “To Julia”—say, from whom?

       Luc.

      That the contents will show.

       Jul.

      Say, say; who gave it thee?

       Luc.

      Sir Valentine’s page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.

      He would have given it you, but I, being in the way,

      Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.

       Jul.

      Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

      Dare you presume to harbor wanton lines?

      To whisper and conspire against my youth?

      Now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth,

      And you an officer fit for the place.

      There! take the paper; see it be return’d,

      Or else return no more into my sight.

       Luc.

      To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

       Jul.

      Will ye be gone?

       Luc.

      That you may ruminate.

       Exit.

       Jul.

      And yet I would I had o’erlook’d the letter;

      It were a shame to call her back again,

      And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.

      What ’fool is she, that knows I am a maid,

      And would not force the letter to my view!

      Since maids, in modesty, say “no” to that

      Which they would have the profferer construe ‘ay.’

      Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,

      That (like a testy babe) will scratch the nurse

      And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!

      How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,

      When willingly I would have had her here!

      How angerly I taught my brow to frown,

      When inward joy enforc’d my heart to smile!

      My penance is, to call Lucetta back

      And ask remission for my folly past.

      What ho! Lucetta!

       [Enter Lucetta.]

       Luc.

      What would your ladyship?

       Jul.

      Is’t near dinner-time?

       Luc.

      I would it were,

      That you might kill your stomach on your meat,

      And not upon your maid.

       Jul.

      What is’t that you

      Took up so gingerly?

       Luc.

      Nothing.

       Jul.

      Why didst thou stoop then?

       Luc.

      To take a paper up that I let fall.

       Jul.

      And is that paper nothing?

       Luc.

      Nothing concerning me.

       Jul.

      Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

       Luc.

      Madam, it will not lie where it concerns

      Unless it have a false interpreter.

       Jul.

      Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.

       Luc.

      That I might sing it, madam, to a tune:

      Give me a note, your ladyship can set.

       Jul.

      As little by such toys as may be possible:

      Best sing it to the tune of “Light o’ love.”

       Luc.

      It is too heavy for so light a tune.

       Jul.

      Heavy? belike it hath some burden then?

       Luc.

      Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.

       Jul.

      And why not you?

       Luc.

      I cannot reach so high.

       Jul.

      Let’s see your song.

       [Takes the letter.]

      How now, minion?

       Luc.

      Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out.

      And yet methinks I do not like this tune.

       Jul.

      You do not?

       Luc.

      No, madam, ’tis too sharp.

       Jul.

      You, minion, are too saucy.

       Luc.

      Nay, now you are too flat,

      And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:

      There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

       Jul.

      The mean is drown’d with [your] unruly bass.

       Luc.

      Indeed I bid the base for Proteus.

       Jul.

      This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

      Here is a coil with protestation!

       [Tears the letter.]

      Go, get you gone; and let the papers lie: