Rose. Dear madam, peace; now for the song.
THE SONG[B]. Blind love, to this hour, Had never, like me, a slave under his power: Then blest be the dart, That he threw at my heart; For nothing can prove A joy so great, as to be wounded with love.
My days, and my nights, Are filled to the purpose with sorrows and frights: From my heart still I sigh, And my eyes are ne'er dry; So that, Cupid be praised, I am to the top of love's happiness raised.
My soul's all on fire, So that I have the pleasure to doat and desire: Such a pretty soft pain, That it tickles each vein; 'Tis the dream of a smart, Which makes me breathe short, when it beats at my heart.
Sometimes, in a pet, When I am despised, I my freedom would get: But strait a sweet smile Does my anger beguile, And my heart does recal; Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall.
Heaven does not impart Such a grace, as to love, unto every ones heart; For many may wish To be wounded, and miss: Then blest be loves fire, And more blest her eyes, that first taught me desire.
The Song being done, Warner rings again; but Sir Martin continues fumbling, and gazing on his Mistress.
Mill. A pretty humoured song. But stay, methinks he plays and sings still, and yet we cannot hear him. Play louder, Sir Martin, that we may have the fruits on't.
Warn. [Peeping.] Death! this abominable fool will spoil all again. Damn him, he stands making his grimaces yonder; and he looks so earnestly upon his mistress, that he hears me not.
[Rings again.
Mill. Ah, ah! have I found you out, sir? Now, as I live and breathe, this is pleasant: Rose, his man played and sung for him, and he, it seems, did not know when he should give over.
[Mill. and Rose laugh.