Enter Aurelia, Phœnixella, Francisco,
Angelo.
Franc.
See, signior Angelo, here are the
ladies;
Go you and comfort one, I'll to the other.
Ang.
Therefore I come, sir; I'll to the
eldest.
God save you, ladies; these sad modes of
yours,
That make you choose these solitary walks,
Are hurtful for your beauties.
Aur.
If we had them.
Ang.
Come, that condition might be for
your hearts,
When you protest faith, since we cannot see them.
But this same heart of beauty, your sweet
face,
Is in mine eye still.
Aur.
O you cut my heart
With your sharp eye.
Ang.
Nay, lady, that's not so,
Your heart's too hard.
Aur.
My beauty's heart?
Ang.
O no.
I mean that regent of affection, madam,
That tramples on all love with such con-
tempt
In this fair breast.
Aur.
No more, your drift is savour'd;
I had rather seem hard-hearted ———
Ang.
Than hard-favour'd;
Is that your meaning, lady?
Aur.
Go to, sir;
Your wits are fresh I know, they need no spur.
Ang.
And therefore you will ride them.
Aur.
Say, I do,
They will not tire, I hope?
Ang.
No, not with you.
Hark you, sweet lady.
Franc.
'Tis much pity, madam,
You should have any reason to retain
This sign of grief, much less the thing de-
sign'd.
Phœ.
Griefs are more fit for ladies than
their pleasures.
Franc.
That is for such as follow nought
but pleasures.
But you that temper them so well with virtues, <!-- wrapped over thus: vir- [tues, -->
Using your griefs so, it would prove them
pleasures;
And you would seem, in cause of griefs and pleasures, <!-- wrapped over thus: [pleasures, -->
Equally pleasant.
Phœ.
Sir, so I do now.
It is the excess of either that I strive
So much to shun, in all my prov'd endea-
vours,
Although perhaps, unto a general eye,
I may appear most wedded to my griefs;
Yet doth my mind forsake no taste of plea-
sure,
I mean that happy pleasure of the soul,
Divine and sacred contemplation
Of that eternal and most glorious bliss,
Proposed as the crown unto our souls.
Franc.
I will be silent; yet that I may
serve
But as a decade in the art of memory,
To put you still in mind of your own virtues,
When your too serious thoughts make you
too sad,
Accept me for your servant, honour'd lady.
Phœ.
Those ceremonies are too common,
signior Francis,
For your uncommon gravity and judgment,
And fits them only that are nought but cere-
mony.
Ang.
Come, I will not sue stalely to be
your servant,
But a new term, will you be my refuge?
Aur.
Your refuge! why, sir?
Ang.
That I might fly to you when all
else fail me.
Aur.
An' you be good at flying, be my
plover.
Ang.
Nay, take away the p.
Aur.
Tut, then you cannot fly.
Ang.
I'll warrant you: I'll borrow Cu-
pid's wings.
Aur.
Mass, then I fear me you will do
strange things.
I pray you blame me not, if I suspect you;
Your own confession simply doth detect you.
Nay, and you be so great in Cupid's books,
'Twill make me jealous. You can with your
looks
(I'll warrant you) enflame a woman's heart,
And at your pleasure take love's golden dart,
And wound the breast of any virtuous maid.
Would I were hence! good faith, I am
afraid
You can constrain one, ere they be aware,
To run mad for your love.
Ang.
O this is rare.