Dru. I pray ye walk on, Sir;
The cool shades of the Grove invite ye.
Dio. O my Dearest!
When man has cast off his ambitious greatness,
And sunk into the sweetness of himself;
Built his foundation upon honest thoughts,
Not great, but good desires his daily servants;
How quie[t]ly he sleeps! how joyfully
He wakes again, and looks on his possessions,
And from his willing labours feeds with pleasure?
Here hang no Comets in the shapes of Crowns,
To shake our sweet contents: nor here, Drusilla,
Cares, like Eclipses, darken our endeavours:
We love here without rivals, kiss with innocence;
Our thoughts as gentle as our lips; our children
The double heirs both of our forms and faiths.
Dru. I am glad ye make this right use of this sweetness,
This sweet retiredness.
Dio. 'Tis sweet indeed, love,
And every circumstance about it, shews it.
How liberal is the spring in every place here?
The artificial Court shews but a shadow,
A painted imitation of this glory.
Smell to this flower, here nature has her excellence:
Let all the perfumes of the Empire pass this,
The carefull'st Ladies cheek shew such a colour,
They are gilded and adulterate vanities.
And here in Povertie dwells noble nature.
What pains we take to cool our wines, to allay us, [Musick below.
And bury quick the fuming god to quench us,
Methinks this Crystal Well.—Ha! what strange Musick?
'Tis underneath, sure: how it stirs and joys me?
How all the birds set on? the fields redouble
Their odoriferous sweets? Hark how the echo's—
Enter a Spirit from the Well.
Drus. See, Sir, those flowers
From out the Well, spring to your entertainment.
Enter Delphia.
Dru. Be not afraid, 'tis some good Angel
That's come to welcome ye.
Del. Go near and hear, Son. [SONG.