Beauty cleere and faire,
      where the aire
  Rather like a perfume dwells,
    Where the violet and the rose
    The blew veines in blush disclose,
  And come to honour nothing else.

  Where to live neere,
      And planted there,
  Is to live, and still live new;
    Where to gain a favour is
    More then light, perpetual blisse,
  Make me live by serving you.

  Deare again backe recal
      to this light,
  A stranger to himselfe and all;
    Both the wonder and the story
    Shall be yours, and eke the Glory,
  I am your servant, and your thrall._

Mir. Speake such another Ode, and take all yet.  What say ye to the Scholar now? Ang. I wonder; Is he your brother, Sir? Bust. Yes, would he were buried, I feare hee’l make an asse of me a younger.

Ang. Speake not so softly Sir, tis very likely.

Bri. Come leave your finical talke, and let’s dispatch, Charles.

Cha. Dispatch?  What? Bri. Why the land. Cha. You are deceiv’d, Sir,
Now I perceive what ’tis that woes a woman,
And what maintaines her when shee’s woo’d:  Ile stop here. 
A wilfull poverty nere made a beauty,
Nor want of meanes maintain’d it vertuously: 
Though land and monies be no happinesse,
Yet they are counted good additions. 
That use Ile make; He that neglects a blessing,
Though he want present knowledge how to use it,
Neglects himself; May be I have done you wrong Lady,
Whose love and hope went hand in hand together;
May be my brother, that has long expected
The happie houre and blest my ignorance;
Pray give me leave Sir, I shall cleare all doubts. 
Why did they shew me you?  Pray tell me that?

(Mir. Hee’l talke thee into a pension for thy knaverie)

Cha. You happie you, why did you breake unto me? 
The rosie sugred morne nere broke so sweetly: 
I am a man, and have desires within me,
Affections too, though they were drown’d a while,
And lay dead, till the Spring of beautie rais’d them;
Till I saw those eyes, I was but a lump;
A Chaos of confusedness dwelt in me;
Then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguisht,
And into forme he drew my faculties;
And now I know my Land, and now I love too.

Bri. We had best remove the Maide. Cha. It is too late Sir. 
I have her figure here.  Nay frowne not Eustace,
There are lesse worthie soules for younger brothers;
This is no forme of silk but sanctitie,
Which wilde lascivious hearts can never dignifie. 
Remove her where you will, I walk along still;
For like the light we make no separation;
You may sooner part the billowes of the Sea,
And put a barre betwixt their fellowships,
Than blot out my remembrance; sooner shut
Old time into a Den, and stay his motion,
Wash off the swift houres from his downie wings,
Or steale eternitie to stop his glasse,
Than shut the sweet Idea I have in me. 
Roome for an elder brother, pray give place, Sir.