Amint. Melantius, I can tell thee a good jest of Strato and
a Lady the last day.
Mel. How wast?
Amint. Why such an odd one.
Mel. I have long'd to speak with you, not of an idle jest that's forc'd, but of matter you are bound to utter to me.
Amint. What is that my friend?
Mel. I have observ'd, your words fall from your tongue
Wildly; and all your carriage,
Like one that strove to shew his merry mood,
When he were ill dispos'd: you were not wont
To put such scorn into your speech, or wear
Upon your face ridiculous jollity:
Some sadness sits here, which your cunning would
Cover o're with smiles, and 'twill not be. What is it?
Amint. A sadness here! what cause
Can fate provide for me, to make me so?
Am I not lov'd through all this Isle? the King
Rains greatness on me: have I not received
A Lady to my bed, that in her eye
Keeps mounting fire, and on her tender cheeks
Inevitable colour, in her heart
A prison for all vertue? are not you,
Which is above all joyes, my constant friend?
What sadness can I have? no, I am light,
And feel the courses of my blood more warm
And stirring than they were; faith marry too,
And you will feel so unexprest a joy
In chast embraces, that you will indeed appear another.
Mel. You may shape, Amintor,
Causes to cozen the whole world withal,
And your self too; but 'tis not like a friend,
To hide your soul from me; 'tis not your nature
To be thus idle; I have seen you stand
As you were blasted; midst of all your mirth,
Call thrice aloud, and then start, feigning joy
So coldly: World! what do I here? a friend
Is nothing, Heaven! I would ha' told that man
My secret sins; I'le search an unknown Land,
And there plant friendship, all is withered here;
Come with a complement, I would have fought,
Or told my friend he ly'd, ere sooth'd him so;
Out of my bosom.
Amint. But there is nothing.
Mel. Worse and worse; farewel; From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.