Rol. What bright star, taking beauties form upon her,
In all the happy lustre of Heavens glory,
Has drop'd down from the Skye to comfort me?
Wonder of nature, let it not prophane thee
My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss,
The gentle sacrifice of love and service,
Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness.
Edi. My gracious Lord, no deity dwells here,
Nor nothing of that vertue, but obedience,
The servant to your will affects no flattery.
Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes
Are loves eternal lamps he fires all hearts with?
That tongue the smart string to his bow? those sighs
The deadly shafts he sends into our souls?
Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty.
Edi. Your grace is full of game.
Rol. By Heaven, my Edith,
Thy Mother fed on Roses when she bred thee.
Ed. And thine on brambles that have prick'd her heart out.
Rol. The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing
Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices,
In all their pride and pleasures call thee Mistris.
Edi. Wil't please you sit Sir?
Rol. So you please sit by me.
Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee,
The excellency that appears upon thee
Tyes up my tongue: pray speak to me.
Edi. Of what Sir?