Rol. Of any thing, any thing is excellent.
Will you take my directions? speak of love then;
Speak of thy fair self Edith; and while thou speak'st,
Let me, thus languishing, give up my self wench.
Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue, why do you sigh Sir?
How masterly he turns himself to catch me!
Rol. The way to Paradise, my gentle maid,
Is hard and crooked, scarce Repentance finding,
With all her holy helps, the door to enter,
Give me thy hand, what dost thou feel?
Edi. Your tears Sir.
You weep extreamly; strengthen me now justice.
Why are these sorrows Sir?
Rol. Thou't never love me
If I should tell thee, yet there's no way left
Ever to purchase this blest Paradise,
But swimming thither in these tears.
Edi. I stagger.
Rol. Are they not drops of blood?
Edi. No.
Rol. They're for blood then,
For guiltless blood, and they must drop, my Edith,
They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs.
Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch him.