For this, thy faithful passion I reward.
Haste then, to take me longing to thy arms.
Arth. O love! O Merlin! whom should I believe?
Em. Believe thyself, thy youth, thy love, and me;
They, only they, who please themselves, are wise.
Disarm thy hand, that mine may meet it bare.
Arth. By thy leave, reason, here I throw thee off,
Thou load of life. If thou wert made for souls,
Then souls should have been made without their bodies.
If falling for the first created fair