and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me; Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, Because we know, on Valentine's report, You are already Love's firm votary And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access Where you with Silvia may confer at large; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you; Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. As much as I can do, I will effect: But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber-window With some sweet concert; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. And thy advice this night I'll put in practise. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. About it, gentlemen! We'll wait upon your grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. Even now about it! I will pardon you. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye: If not: we'll make you sit and rifle you. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. My friends,-- That's not so, sir: we are your enemies. Peace! we'll hear him. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man. Then know that I have little wealth to lose: A man I am cross'd with adversity; My riches