Dem. I have done then.
O matchless sweetness, whither art thou vanished?
O thou fair soul of all thy Sex, what Paradise
Hast thou inrich'd and blest? I am your son, Sir,
And to all you shall command stand most obedient,
Only a little time I must intreat you
To study to forget her; 'twill not be long, Sir,
Nor I long after it: art thou dead Celia,
Dead my poor wench? my joy, pluckt green with violence:
O fair sweet flower, farewel; Come, thou destroyer
Sorrow, thou melter of the soul, dwell with me;
Dwell with me solitary thoughts, tears, cryings,
Nothing that loves the day, love me, or seek me,
Nothing that loves his own life haunt about me:
And Love, I charge thee, never charm mine eyes more,
Nor ne're betray a beauty to my curses:
For I shall curse all now, hate all, forswear all,
And all the brood of fruitful nature vex at,
For she is gone that was all, and I nothing— [Ex. & Gent.
Ant. This opinion must be maintained.
Men. It shall be, Sir.
Ant. Let him go; I can at mine own pleasure
Draw him to th' right again: wait your instructions,
And see the souldier paid, Leontius:
Once more ye are welcome home all.
All. Health to your Majesty. [Ex. Antig. &c.
Leo. Thou wentest along the journey, how canst thou tell?
Host. I did, but I am sure 'tis so: had I staid behind, I think this had not proved.
Leo. A Wench the reason?
Lieu. Who's that talks of a Wench there?
Leo. All this discontent About a Wench?