Val. To whom? Speed. To your selfe: why, she woes you by a figure Val. What figure? Speed. By a Letter, I should say Val. Why she hath not writ to me? Speed. What need she, When shee hath made you write to your selfe? Why, doe you not perceiue the iest? Val. No, beleeue me Speed. No beleeuing you indeed sir: But did you perceiue her earnest? Val. She gaue me none, except an angry word Speed. Why she hath giuen you a Letter Val. That's the Letter I writ to her friend Speed. And y letter hath she deliuer'd, & there an end Val. I would it were no worse Speed. Ile warrant you, 'tis as well: For often haue you writ to her: and she in modesty, Or else for want of idle time, could not againe reply, Or fearing els some messe[n]ger, y might her mind discouer Her self hath taught her Loue himself, to write vnto her louer. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you sir, 'tis dinner time Val. I haue dyn'd Speed. I, but hearken sir: though the Cameleon Loue can feed on the ayre, I am one that am nourish'd by my victuals; and would faine haue meate: oh bee not like your Mistresse, be moued, be moued. Exeunt. Scoena secunda. Enter Protheus, Iulia, Panthion. Pro. Haue patience, gentle Iulia: Iul. I must where is no remedy Pro. When possibly I can, I will returne Iul. If you turne not: you will return the sooner: Keepe this remembrance for thy Iulia's sake Pro. Why then wee'll make exchange; Here, take you this Iul. And seale the bargaine with a holy kisse Pro. Here is my hand, for my true constancie: And when that howre ore-slips me in the day, Wherein I sigh not (Iulia) for thy sake, The next ensuing howre, some foule mischance Torment me for my Loues forgetfulnesse: My father staies my comming: answere not: The tide is now; nay, not thy tide of teares, That tide will stay me longer then I should, Iulia, farewell: what, gon without a word? I, so true loue should doe: it cannot speake, For truth hath better deeds, then words to grace it Panth. Sir Protheus: you are staid for Pro. Goe: I come, I come: Alas, this parting strikes poore Louers dumbe. Exeunt. Scoena Tertia. Enter Launce, Panthion.