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Hath he excepted most against my love.

O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away.

[Enter Panthino.]

Pan.

Sir Proteus, your [father] calls for you:

He is in haste; therefore I pray you go.

Pro.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,

And yet a thousand times it answers ‘no.’

Exeunt.

¶

Enter Valentine, Speed.

Speed.

Sir, your glove.

Val.

Not mine: my gloves are on.

Speed.

Why then this may be yours—for this is but one.

Val.

Ha? let me see; ay, give it me, it’s mine:

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine—

Ah, Silvia, Silvia!

Speed [Shouting.]

Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!

Val. How now, sirrah?

Speed. She is not within hearing, sir.

Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her?

Speed. Your worship, sir, or else I mistook.

Val. Well—you’ll still be too forward.

Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?