CELIA

Mine all of Cypress leaves, which are broadest and beautifullest, yet bears the least fruit; for beauty makes the brightest show, being the slightest substance; and I am content to wither before I be worn, and de prive my self of that which so many desire. Alas poor souls, how ill love founds in their lips, who telling a long tale of hunting, think they have bewrayed a sad passion of love! Niobe, your affection is but pinned to your tongue, which when you lift you can unloose But let us read what they have written: Penelope ipsam perstes mode tempore vinces. That is for you Nisa, whom nothing will move, yet hope makes him hover. I hope it will be market day till my death's day. Indeed better to tell stars then be idle, yet bet ter idle then ill employed; Mine this, Sat ihi sifacies, fit be notam mihi. Some Glasses are true. Let us sing, and so attend on Ceres ; for this day, although into her heart never entered any motion of love, yet usually to the Temple of Cupid, he offereth vo white Doves, as entreating his favour, and one Eagle, as commanding his power. Praecibus que minaes regaliter addet. Our alas, what hath he done? Ah cruel Erisicthon, that not only defacest these holy trees, but murderest also this chased nymph. Montanus, thou art mad, that having no breath almost in running so fast, thou wilt yet spend more in spea king so foolishly: yield to love! cannot, or if I do, to thy love I will not. If my thoughts were wolvish, thy Hope's might be as thy comparison is, beastly. I would thy looks were, as thy affection is, blind. Fresh flowers have crooked roots. Men's follies will ever wax, and then what rea son can make them wise? To be amorous, and not lovely, is Like a plea sant fool full of words, and no deserts. No lovelier thing then wit, no greater desert then patience. If thou think sothy self, thou art and excellent fool. I thought, Montanus, that you could not de serve, when I told you what it was, Patience. Then want you wit, that you can be content to be patient. The fortune of love, and the virtue is neither to have success, nor mean. Farewell. I consent, so as Montanus, when in the amid of his sweet delight, shall find some bitter overthwarts, im pute it to his folly, in that he suffered me to be a Rose, that hath prickles with her pleasantness, as he is Like to have with my love shrewdness. I do. Nor I. Nor I Cupid : well could I content my self to bud in the Summer, and to die in the Winter: for more good comes of the Rose, then can by love: when it is fresh, it hath a sweet favour, love a sour taste: the Rose when it is old, loses not his virtue; love when it is state waxes loathsome. The Rose distilled with fire yields sweere water: love in extremities kindles jealousy's: in the Rose how ever it be, there is sweetness; in love nothing but bit ternesse. If men look pale, and swear, & sighs, then for sooth women must yield, because men say they love, as though our hearts were tied to their tongues, and we must choose them by appointment, our selves feeling no affection on, and so have our thoughts bound prentices to their words: turn me again. Yield I will not. Shall I yield to him, that made so small account of my beauty, that he studied how he might never behold it again?