PROTEUS. Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. To her let us garlands bring. HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not. HOST. Why, my pretty youth? JULIA. He plays false, father. HOST. How, out of tune on the strings? JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. HOST. You have a quick ear. JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. HOST. I perceive you delight not in music. JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so. HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music! JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite. HOST. You would have them always play but one thing? JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on, Often resort unto this gentlewoman? HOST. I tell you what Lance, his man, told me: he loved her out of all nick. JULIA. Where is Lance? HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which tomorrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a present to his lady. JULIA. Peace, stand aside. The company parts. PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. THURIO. Where meet we? PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory’s well. THURIO. Farewell. [_Exeunt Thurio and Musicians._] Enter Silvia above. PROTEUS. Madam, good even to your ladyship. SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it. PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. SILVIA. What’s your will? PROTEUS. That I may compass yours. SILVIA. You have your wish. My will is even this, That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man, Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived 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. PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady, But she is dead. JULIA. [_Aside_.] ’Twere false, if I should speak it, For I am sure she is not buried.