ORITHIE

Will you then place the happiness, but there, where the dull blow man and the plowman's horse can find it out? Shall souls refined, not know how to preserve alive a noble flame, but let it die, burn out to appetite? My Lord, there is so little hope we should convert you; and if we should, so little God by it, that wee'll not loose so much upon't as sleep. Your Lordship's servants— Is the Queen ready to come out? The Song. This modesty becomes you as ill, my Lord, as wooing would us women: pray, put's not to't. I should have guessed, it had been the issue of your brain, if I had not been told so; Faces, Madam, are Like books, those that do study them know best, and to say truth, it's still much as it pleases the Courteous Reader. Madam, so much more miserable am I this way than you, that should I pity you, I should forget my self: my sufferings are such, that with less patience you may endure your own, than give mine Audience. There is that difference, that you may make yours none at all, but by considering mine! Could they be spoke, they were not then so great. I love, and dare not say I love; dare not hope, what I desire; yet still too must desire— and Like a starving man brought to a feast, and made say grace, to what he never shall taste, be thankful after all, and kiss the hand, that made the wound thus deep. And do you think there is such odds in it? would Heaven we women could as easily change our Fortune's as (it's said) we can our minds. I cannot (Madam) think them miserable, that have the Princes Love. What Scene of sorrow's this? both dead! The Prince? then in griefs burden I must bear a partly. Ah me! the Queen.— O! here has been (my Lords) the blackest night the Persian world ever knew, the King and Prince are not themselves exempt from this arrest; but pale and cold, as these, have measured out their lengths. All joys wait on you ever. Madam, I loved the Prince, not my self; since his virtues have their full rewards, I have my full desires.