Lovel.
O Love, what Passion art thou!
So tyrannous! and treacherous! first t'enslave,
And then betray, all that in truth do serve thee!
That not wisest, not the wariest creature,
Can more dissemble thee, than he can bear
Hot burning Coals, in his bare palm, or bosom!
And less, conceal, or hide thee, than a flash
Of enflam'd Powder, whose whole light doth lay it
Open to all discovery, even of those
Who have but half an eye, and less of nose!
An Host, to find me! who is, commonly,
The log, a little o' this side the Sign-post!
Or at the best some round grown thing, a Jug,
Fac'd with a Beard, that fills out the Guests,
And takes in fro' the fragments o' their Jests?
But I may wrong this out of sullenness,
Or my mistaking Humour? Pray thee, phant'sie,
Be lay'd again. And gentle Melancholy,
Do not oppress me, I will be as silent,
As the tame Lover shoould be, and as foolish.