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Sce. 4.
Anteros. Lucius.Ant.
How fares it with our Lucius?
Luc.
As with one
That is of all men the most miserable:
Ah my Pandora, when I record thy name,
(Thy name that's bounded with that sacred number
As shewing all Perfection bides in thee)
Mee thinkes the numerous Orbes dwell in mine eare,
After which sound all others seeme vnpleasing,
Harsh, voyd of Harmony—Pandora—oh
How sweete a life had the Camelion
Might hee but euer feede vpon such aires!
Ant.
Am I not yet transform'd? me thinkes I feele
My selfe becoming Wolfe—I am halfe Beare already.
Luc.
Liue happy still, and when thine aged head
Loaden with yeares Shall bee inueloped
Within this earth, may a perpetuall spring
Be on thy Graue.
Ant.
Shall I put forth my Paw,
And so command him silence?
Luc.
But when I
Forget to loue thee or thy memorie,
May my white name be stained with the blot
To wash it out.
Ant.
Forget to loue her?—oh
Not for a world. And er't be long we shall
Haue some decayed piece of Arras, that
Is brought to his last sute, and has no more
Lands for to sell or morgage for new plush
Will begge you for your faire reuenues Sir
—Death Sir I cannot flatter,
Let me not liue a minute if I can.
You looke not like your selfe in that same passion;
It is not man-like; ere I'de loose a sigh,
Or set my soule one scruple of a note
The lower for these scarcrowes in cleane linnen
These chippings of nature: I'de dam my selfe
To a thatcht Alchouse, and S. Kitts Tobacco,
And dabble there eternally:
Luc.
Ah Anteros, thou art too rough a Surgeon
To handle my wounds.
Ant.
Pandora, ah Pandora.
Does not this sound deliciously from a man?
Luc.
Doe not blaspheame good Anteros; shee is
The modell of the world.
Ant.
Why so am I,
And you, and euery man besides, wee all
Are little worlds.
Luc.
But my Pandora is
The abstract of them all; when she was borne,
The whole house of heauen did meete, and there decreede
Onely in her mortality should reach
Perfection.
Ant.
And for heauens cause why in her?
Are wee not all made of the selfe same clay?
And of the same ingredients? by the same workeman?
'Tis madnesse Lucius this, it is not loue.
Luc.
Sir I must leaue you.
Ant.
Nay but stay a while,
I haue not finisht yet. Besides all this,
If you doe loue her so, what hinders then
But you might marry her, since (as I heare)
The Girle is not compos'd of adamant
Or flint, but of a supple and kinde nature,
And loues you too?
Luc.
O my deare friend Neander,
Shall I doe this to thee? to such a friend?
Ant.
Oh I am vndone. Farewell.
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