SEMANTHE

Think you it is not then the little jealousies (my Lord) and fears, joy mixed with doubt, and doubt revived with hope that crowns all love with pleasure? these are lost when once we come to full fruition; Like waking in the morning when all night on sancie has been fed with some new strange delight. Love's a Chameleon, and would live on air, ph sick for agues, starving is his food. And how, and how my Lord? Rare! And what's the drink to all this meat, my Lord? And all this rich proportion, perchance we would allow him: Come my Lord, the Song then. I have Madam. As one that had entrenched so deep in Innocence, she feared no enemies, bears all quietly, and smiles at Fortune, whilst she frowns on her. As men in sickness scorched into a raving do see the Devil, in all shapes and forms, when standers by wondering, ask where, and when; So they in Love, for all's but fever there, and madness too. What my Lord? You do mistake, if I do shun you, it's, as bashful Debtors shun their Creditors, I cannot pay you in the self same coin, and am ashamed to offer any other. 'Twould here be mean my Lord, since mine would prove In your hands but a Counterfeit, and yours in mine worth nothing; Sympathy, not greatness, makes those Jewels rise in valve. That heart would Love but ill that must be taught, such fires as these still kindle of themselves. Ask? how the Flint can carry fire within? it's the least miracle that Love can do: Call not that cruelty, which is our fate, believe me Iolas, the honest Swain that from the brow of some steep cliff far off, beholds a ship labouring in vain against the boisterous and unruly Elements, never had less power, or more desire to help than I; at every sighs, I die, and every look, does move; and any passion you will have but Love, I have in store: I will be angry, quarrel with destiny, and with my self that it's no better; be melancholy; And (though mine own disasters well might plead to be in chief,) yours only shall have place, I'll pity, and (if that's too low) I'll grieve, as for my sins, I cannot give you ease; all this I do, and this I hope will prove it's greater Torment not to love, than Love.— The noble Ariaspes —valiant Ziriff too.— Weeps. How do you Madam? O! she is gone for ever. Of that we are as ignorant as you: for while the Queen was telling of the Story, and unknown villain here has hurt her so, that Like a sickly Taper, she but made one flash, and so expired: