Fred. That, that.
Pod. They are written songs, Sir, to provoke young Ladies;
Lord, here's a Prayer-Book, how these agree!
Here's a strange union.
Sor. Ever by a surfeit you have a julep set to cool the Patient.
Fred. Those, those.
Sor. They are Verses to the blest Evanthe.
Fred. Those may discover,
Read them out, Sorano.
To the blest Evanthe.
Let those complain that feel Loves cruelty.
And in sad legends write their woes,
With Roses gently has corected me,
My War is without rage or blows:
My Mistriss eyes shine fair on my desires,
And hope springs up enflam'd with her new fires.
No more an Exile will I dwell,
With folded arms, and sighs all day,
Reckoning the torments of my Hell,
And flinging my sweet joys away:
I am call'd home again to quiet peace,
My Mistriss smiles, and all my sorrows cease.
Yet what is living in her Eye?
Or being blest with her sweet tongue,
If these no other joys imply?
A golden Give, a pleasing wrong:
To be your own but one poor Month, I'd give
My Youth, my Fortune, and then leave to live.