Sweet lord, cleare up those eyes,
Unbend that masking forehead. Whence is it
You rush upon her with these Irish warres,
More full of sound then hurt? But it is enough;
You have shot home, your words are in her heart;155
She has not liv'd to beare a triall now.
Mont. Look up, my love, and by this kisse receive
My soule amongst thy spirits, for supply
To thine chac'd with my fury.
Tam. O, my lord,