Feli. O, then I have it, I’ll tell thee what to do.
Alb. What, good Feliche?
Feli. Go and hang thyself; I say, go hang thyself,
If that thou canst not give, go hang thyself:
I’ll rhyme thee dead, or verse thee to the rope.
How think’st thou of a poet that sung thus?
Munera sola pacant, sola addunt munera formam:
Munere sollicites Pallada, Cypris erit. 60
Munera, munera!
Alb. I’ll go and breathe my woes unto the rocks,
And spend my grief upon the deafest seas.
I’ll weep my passion to the senseless trees,
And load most solitary air with plaints.
For woods, trees, sea, or rocky Apennine,
Is not so ruthless as my Rossaline.
Farewell, dear friend, expect no more of me:
Here ends my part in this love’s comedy. 69
[Exeunt Alberto and Painter.
Feli. Now, master Balurdo, whither are you going, ha?
Bal. Signior Feliche, how do you, faith? and by my troth, how do you?
Feli. Whither art thou going, bully?[163]
Bal. And as heaven help me, how do you?
How, do you, i’faith, hee?