Thier. Nor do you know the reason why the Dove,
One of the pair, your hands wont hourly feed,
So often clipt and kist her happy mate.
Ordel. Unless it were to welcome his wish'd sight,
Whose absence only gave her mourning voice.
Thier. And you could, Dove-like to a single object,
Bind your loose spirits to one, nay, such a one
Whom only eyes and ears must flatter good,
Your surer sence made useless, my self, nay
As in my all of good, already known.
Ordel. Let proof plead for me; let me be mew'd up
Where never eye may reach me, but your own;
And when I shall repent, but in my looks, if sigh.
Thier. Or shed a tear that's warm.
Ordel. But in your sadness.
Thier. Or when you hear the birds call for their mates,
Ask if it be St. Valentine, their coupling day.
Ordel. If any thing may make a thought suspected
Of knowing any happiness but you,
Divorce me, by the Title of Most Falshood.
Thier. Oh, who would know a wife, that might have such a friend?
Posterity henceforth, lose the name of blessing
And leave the earth inhabited to people heaven.
Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Martel, Protaldye.