Dor. Great Sir, my Lord commands me visit you,
And thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds
From some distast of worthless entertainment.
Will't please you take your chamber? how d'ye do, Sir?
Mar. Lost, lost again; the wild rage of my blood
Doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore
Of my weak virtue: my desire's a vane,
That the least breath from her turns every way.
Dor. What says my Lord?
Mar. Dismiss your women, pray,
And I'll reveal my grief.
Dor. Leave me.
Mar. Long tales of love (whilst love it self
Might be enjoyed) are languishing delays.
There is a secret strange lies in my brest,
I will partake wi' you, which much concerns
Your Lord, your self, and me. Oh!
Dor. Strange secrets, Sir,
Should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet,
If your strange secret do no lower lie
Then in your brest, discover it.
Mar. I will.
Oh! can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs?
Dor. Sighs none can paint, and therefore who can see?
Mar. Scorn me not, Dorigen, with mocks: Alcides,
That master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd,
Omphale smil'd his club out of his hand,
And made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you,
And I love Sophocles: I must enjoy you,
And yet I would not injure him.