Philaster; Or, Love Lies a Bleeding. Beaumont Francis

      Are. With it, it were too little to bestow

                      On thee: Now, though thy breath doth strike me dead

                      (Which know it may) I have unript my breast.

      Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts,

                      To lay a train for this contemned life,

                      Which you may have for asking: to suspect

                      Were base, where I deserve no ill: love you!

                      By all my hopes I do, above my life:

                      But how this passion should proceed from you

                      So violently, would amaze a man, that would be jealous.

      Are. Another soul into my body shot,

                      Could not have fill'd me with more strength and spirit,

                      Than this thy breath: but spend not hasty time,

                      In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods,

                      The gods, that make me so; and sure our love

                      Will be the nobler, and the better blest,

                      In that the secret justice of the gods

                      Is mingled with it. Let us leave and kiss,

                      Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us,

                      And we should part without it.

                      Phi. 'Twill be ill

                      I should abide here long.

      Are. 'Tis true, and worse

                      You should come often: How shall we devise

                      To hold intelligence? That our true lovers,

                      On any new occasion may agree, what path is best to

                      tread?

      Phi. I have a boy sent by the gods, I hope to this intent,

                      Not yet seen in the Court; hunting the Buck,

                      I found him sitting by a Fountain side,

                      Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,

                      And paid the Nymph again as much in tears;

                      A Garland lay him by, made by himself,

                      Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,

                      Stuck in that mystick order, that the rareness

                      Delighted me: but ever when he turned

                      His tender eyes upon 'um, he would weep,

                      As if he meant to make 'um grow again.

                      Seeing such pretty helpless innocence

                      Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story;

                      He told me that his Parents gentle dyed,

                      Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,

                      Which gave him roots; and of the Crystal springs,

                      Which did not stop their courses: and the Sun,

                      Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light,

                      Then took he up his Garland and did shew,

                      What every flower as Country people hold,

                      Did signifie: and how all ordered thus,

                      Exprest his grief: and to my thoughts did read

                      The prettiest lecture of his Country Art

                      That could be wisht: so that, me thought, I could

                      Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him,

                      Who was glad to follow; and have got

                      The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,

                      That ever Master kept: Him will I send

                      To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.