VALENTINE.
O, my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!
[Exeunt Valentine and Proteus.]
LANCE.
I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave; but that’s all one if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love, yet I am in love, but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman, but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. [Pulls out a paper.] Here is the cate-log of her condition. Imprimis, She can fetch and carry. Why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. Item, She can milk. Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.
Enter Speed.
SPEED.
How now, Signior Lance? What news with your mastership?
LANCE.
With my master’s ship? Why, it is at sea.
SPEED.
Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper?
LANCE.
The blackest news that ever thou heard’st.
SPEED.
Why, man? How black?
LANCE.
Why, as black as ink.