AURELIA

Sister, faith you take too much Tobacco, It makes you black within, as you're without. What true-stich sister? both your sides alike? Be of a sleighter work: for of my word, You shall be sold as deer or rather dearer? Will you be bound to customs and to rites? Shed profitable tears, weep for advantage; Or else, do all things, as you are inclined. Hate when your stomach serves (says the Physician ) Not at eleven and six. So if your humour Be now affected with this heaviness. Give me the reins and spare not, as I do, In this my pleasurable appetite, It is Praecisianisme to altar that With austere judgement, that is given by nature. I wept you saw too, when my mother died: For then I found it easier to do so, And fitter with my mood, then not to weep. But now 'tis otherwise, another time Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of her, That I shall weep a fresh, some twelve month hence, And I will weep, if I be so disposed, And put on black, as grimly then, as now; Let the mind go still with the bodies stature, Judgement is fit for Judges, give me nature. If we had them. Oh you cut my heart with your sharp eye. My beauty's heart? A mothelry conceit, o blind excuse, Blinder then love himself. Well sister, well. Cupid hath taken his stand in both your eyes, The case is all terd. Nay nothing but a Saint. Another Bridget, one that for a face Would put down Vesta, in whose looks does swim, The very sweetest cream of modesty. You to turn tippet? fie, fie, will you give A packing penny to Virginity. I thought youled dwell so long in Cypress I'll, You'd worship Madam Venus at the length; But come, the strongest fallen, and why not you? Nay, do not frown. Well I may jest, or so: but Cupid knows My taking is as bade, or worse then hers. Oh Mounsieur Gasper? if thou be'st a man, Be not afraid to court me, do but speak, Challenge thy right and wear it: for I swear Till thou arriud'st, never came affection here. But in good sadness Signior, do you think Cham mount will return? I sure, if love have not blinded you. Nay, sweet Signior. I'll follow Signior, o sweet Queen of love! Sovereign of all my thoughts, and thou fair fortune, Who (more to honour my affections) Hast thus translated Gasper to Chamount. Let both your flames now burn in one bright spear; And give true light to my a spiring Hope's, Hasten Chamounts return, let him affect me, Though father, friends, and all the world reject me. I Faith brother you are fitted for a general yonder, Beshrew my heart (If I had Fortunatus hat here) and I would not wish my self a man and go with you, only enjoy his pre sense. No by my troth, but I have such and odd pretty appre hension of his humour me thinks: that I am eene tickled with the conceit of it. Oh he is a fine man. Oh Angelio, do you think I do urge any comparison a gainst you? no, I am not so ill bred, as to be a depraver of your worthiness: believe me, if I had not some hope of your abiding with us, I should never desire to go out of black while I lived: but learn to speak i'the nose, and turn puritan presently. Come do you take it so? I faith you wrong me. No more, your drift is savoured, I had rather seem hard hearted Go too sir. Your wits are fresh I know, they needs no spur, Say I do. They will not tire I hope? Your refuge, why sir. And you be good at flying, be my Plover. Tut, then you cannot fly. Mass then I fear me yowl do strange things: I pray you blame me not, if I suspect you, Your own confession simply does detect you, Nay and you be so great in Cupid's books, Will make me Jealous. you can with your looks (I warrant you) inflame a woman's heart, And at your pleasure take loves golden dart, And wound the breast of any virtuous maid. Would I were hence: good Faith I am afraid, You can constrain one ere they be aware, To run mad for your love? Sweet signior. Now God a mercy fortune, and sweet Venus, Let Cupid do his partly, and all is well. Room for a case of matrons coloured black, How motherly my mother's death hath made us? I would I had some girls now to bring up; Oh I could make a wench so virtuous, She should say grace to every bit of meat, And gape no wider then a wafers thickness: And she should make French curtsies, so most low, That every touch should turn her over backward. Why how now sister in a motley muse? Go to, the somewhat in the wind, I see. Faith this brown study suits not with your black, Your habit and your thoughts are of two colours.