University of Virginia Library

Scena X.

Enter by him Amorous and Musitian. Then Morphe.
Mal.
Now Amorous; you sit in Fortunes lap,
Your Mistresse sits in yours; you spend your dayes
In Honour, and Delight.

Am.
I shall the more,
If with your liking.

Mal.
Mine? I am your Theme
For mirth at Court; one of your Hobby-horses:
And glad of such perferment; but I'le dash
And poyson your sweet delicates.

Am.
Your hate
(Ex. Mal.
Shall not break off my Scene of Love. Stand there,
And send thy notes like shafts through Morphe's Eare.

Musitian
Sings.
Sweet Morphe lend a feeling eare
To the soft straines wherein I bear
My soul, and sigh it out to thee
Compos'd of sweeter harmony;
With one kind word or smile
Reprive the man a while,
Who life doth crave
Thy print to save,
(grave.)
And feares to make his breast, thy Pictures

Mor.
(Above)
Why do you trouble both your selfe and me,
With such fond circumstance of open wooing?

Am.
I'm glad at any rate to hear your voice,
Though sent in chiding. But my dearest Morphe,
I have a businesse to you from the Queen,
Besides mine own.

Mor.
This you pretend to wrong me.
Though I be loyal, yet my loyalty
Ought not to make me Traytor to my selfe.

Am.
If I be false or any way immodest,
Accuse and shun me.

Mor.
Shall I then believe you?

Am.
Adde to that curse a greater if you can,
And may it fall upon me.

Mor.
Well, I come.

(Mor. descends.
Am.
Now having liberty to act my will,
No Law but this vain curse to hold me in,
How shall I bear my self?

Mor.
What wills the Queen?

Am.
She calls you to her company at Court.
She wants your privacy; you likewise want
Her publick presence: O you wrong your beauty
By shutting such a Jewel from the gaze
Of solemne adoration.

Mor.
Pray excuse me;
If I have beauty, let me keep it well.
The various Fashions, and new Fancies there,
In the opinion of us plainer beauties,
Do but Sophisticate the Elements
Of native Colour, and distort the lines
Of proper figure. What should I do there?
Say I am sickly, as this newes hath made me.
Farewell Sir Amorous.

Am.
Nay, tis not modesty
But blunt stupidity to part so soon.
May I not walk and take you by the arme,
And passe a faire discourse? what hurt in This?
May I not feed my spirits with the aire
That fans your cheekes? lighten mine eye from yours?
Is this immodest?

Mor.
Hark.

Am.
'Tis the clash of weapons.