_Jul._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engraved, To lesson me; and tell me some good mean, 5 How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. _Luc._ Alas, the way is wearisome and long! _Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 10 Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. _Luc._ Better forbear till Proteus make return. _Jul._ O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? 15 Pity the dearth that I have pined in, By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20 _Luc._ I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. _Jul._ The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, 25 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; 30 And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course: I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, 35 Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. _Luc._ But in what habit will you go along? _Jul._ Not like a woman; for I would prevent 40 The loose encounters of lascivious men: Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. _Luc._ Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. _Jul._ No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings 45 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. _Luc._ What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? _Jul._ That fits as well as, 'Tell me, good my lord, 50 What compass will you wear your farthingale?' Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. _Luc._ You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. _Jul._ Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd. _Luc._ A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, 55 Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.