Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion with which, (being a prisoner in the English king's court) he is enamoured to frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna.
Orl. This music makes me but more out of tune.
Gall. Gentle friend, no more..
Thou say'st Love is a madness: hate it then,
Even for the name's sake.
Orl. O I love that Madness,
Even for the name's sake.
Gall. Let me tame this frenzy,
By telling thee thou art a prisoner here,
By telling thee she's daughter to a King,
By telling thee the King of Cyprus' son
Shines like a sun between her looks and thine,
Whilst thou seem'st but a star to Agripyne.
He loves her.
Orl. If he do, why so do I.
Gall. Love is ambitious and loves Majesty.
Orl. Dear friend, thou art deceiv'd: Love's voice doth
As sweetly in a beggar as a king.
Gall. Dear friend thou art deceiv'd: O bid thy soul Lift up her intellectual eyes to heaven,
And in this ample book of wonders read,
Of what celestial mould, what sacred essence,
Her self is form'd: the search whereof will drive
Sounds musical among the jarring spirits,
And in sweet tune set that which none inherits.
Orl. I'll gaze on heaven if Agripyne be there.
If not fa, la, la, Sol, la, &c.
Gall. O call this madness in: see, from the windows
The glass wherein yourself must look ;
Your young thoughts so proud and jolly
Must be turn'd to motions holy;
For your busk, attires, and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past,
You must do penance, pray and fast.
You shall ring the sacring bell,
Keep your hours, and tell your knell.
Rise at midnight to your matins,
Read your psalter, sing your Latins ;
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.
You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed,
Bind your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy Aves and your Creeds;
Holy Maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a Nun.
GREEN'S TU QUOQUE: OR, THE CITY GALLANT. A COMEDY. BY JOSEPH COOKE.
Men more niggardly of their love than women.
Thrice happy days they were, and too soon gone,
When as the heart was coupled with the tongue;
And no deceitful flattery, or guile
Hung on the lover's tear-commixed smile.
Could women learn but that imperiousness,
By which men use to stint our happiness
(When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs
By customary sighs and forced tears)
To give us bits of kindness, lest we faint,
But no abundance; that we ever want,
And still are begging: which too well they know
Endears affection, and doth make it grow.
Had we those sleights, how happy were we then
That we might glory over love-sick men !
But arts we know not, nor have any skill
To feign a sour look to a pleasing will;
Nor couch a secret love in show of hate:
But, if we like, must be compassionate *.
Adversity.
How ruthless men are to adversity!
My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone;
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.
That which gilded over his imperfections,
Is wasted and consumed, even like ice,
Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves,
And glides to many rivers; so his wealth,
That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,
Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers
Ran like a violent stream to other men's.
This is so like Shakspeare, that one seems almost to remember it as a speech of Desdemona's, upon perceiving an alteration in the behaviour of the Moor.,
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