PHOENIXELLA

Those ceremonies are too common signior Francis, For your uncommon gravity, and judgement, And fits them only, that are nought but ceremony. Good faith me thinks that this young Lord Cham mont favours my mother, sister, does he not? And what of that? Go. go, you fool. Adieu. Alas poor gentleman, my father's rage Is too extreme, too stern and violent Oh that I knew with all my strongest powers, How to remove it from thy patient breast, But that I cannot, yet my willing heart, Shall minister in spite of tyranny To thy misfortune, something there is in him, That does enforce this strange affection, With more then common rapture in my breast: For being but Gasper, he is still as deer To me, as when he did Chamount appear. Sweet Gentleman? how too unworthily Art thou thus tortured, brave Maximilian, Pity the poor youth and appease my father, Sir so I do now. It is the excess of either that I strive So much to shun in all my proved endeavours, Although perhaps unto a general eye, I may appear most wedded to my griefs, Yet does my mind forsake no taste of pleasure, I mean that happy pleasure of the soul, Divine and sacred contemplation Of that eternal, and most glorious bliss. Proposed as the crown unto our souls. Oh my father. Indeed sir, if I did put on this sadness Only abroad, and in Society, And were in private merry; and quick humored; Then might it seem affected and abhorred: But as my looks appear, such is my spirit, Drowned up with confluence of grief, and melancholy, That Like to rivers run through all my veins, Quenching the pride and fervour of my blood. Sister, these words become not your atrire, Nor your estate: our virtuous mother's death Should print more deep effects of sorrow in us, Then may be worn out in so little time. Griefs are more fit for Ladies then their pleasures. I will anon? good Jaques be content. Me thinks my heart's in heaven with this comfort. Oh strange my brother.