Fra.  Weele leave my Nephew and your sister, Madam, And take a turne i’th garden.

Sis.  You may be confident.

[Exeunt Sir Francis, Lady, and Dorothy.

De.—­I doe not like the fancie in his hat; That gules is warre and will be ominous.

Ext. [Device.

Sis.  The gentleman’s turnd statue! blesse me how
He staires upon me and takes roote, I thinke. 
It mooves, and now to earth is fixt agen;
Oh, now it walkes and sadly marches this way. 
Is’t not a ghost? heele fright me.  Oh, sweet sir,
Speake if you can and say who murderd you. 
It points at me:  my eyes? ungentle eyes
To kill so at first sight!  Ile have my lookes
Arraigned for’t and small Cupid shall be judg,
Who for your sake will make me blind as he is.

Co.  Ladie—­

Sis.  The man’s alive agen and has
A tongue! discretion guide it; he but sent
His soule forth of an arrand; tis returnd,
Now wee shall have some sentences.

Co.  Such are the strange varieties in love, Such heates, such desperate coldes,—­

Sis.  No more winter, and you love me, unlesse you can command the colepits; we have had a hard tyme on’t already for want of fuell.

Co.  I’me all turnd eares and, Lady, long to heare you,
But pressing to you doubt I am too neare you. 
Then I would speake, but cannot; nought affordes
Expression, th’Alphabet’s too poore for wordes: 
He that knowes Love knowes well that every hower
Love’s glad, Love’s sad, Love’s sweet—­

Sis.  And sometymes sower.  Theis wordes would goe well to a tune; pray letts heare you sing.  I doe not thinke but you can make me a ioynture of fower nobles a yeare in Balletts, in lamentable balletts; for your wit I thinke lies tragicall.  Did you make the Ladies Downefall[242].  You expresse a passion rarely, but pray leave Your couplets and say something in blanck verse Before you goe.

Co.  Before I goe? breath not that killing language: 
There is no sunne but in your eyes, and when
I once take leave of those celestiall beames
I meet with darkenes in my habitation;
Where stretch’d on sable ground I downe shall lay
My mournefull body, and with folded Armes
Heare sadder noats uppon the Irish harpe[243]
And drop division with my brinish teares.[244]

Sis.  This must be lamentable musick sure!

Co.  But I have found an art to cure this wound,
For I with fancies pencill will so draw
Your picture in the table of my hart,
Your absence shall but like darke shadowes stand
To sett you of and see you, Lady, better
Then Love will lett me when I looke upon you.

Sis.  Could this be true and meant, sweet sir, to me,
I should be kinder then the gentlest spring
That warms the world and makes fierce beasts so tame
And trees to swell themselves to cheerefull greene;
More jocund then the proudest quire of birds,
What ere they be that in the woods so wide
Doe sing their merry catches.—­Sure he does
But counterfeit.