The Song.
Fie! peace, peace, peace! it hath no passion in’t.
O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes,
That every note may seem to trickle down
Like sad distilling tears, and make—O God!
That I were but a poet, now t’ express my thoughts,
Or a musician but to sing my thoughts,
Or anything but what I am.—Sing’t o’er once more,
My grief’s a boundless sea that hath no shore. 110
[He sings, and is answered; from above a willow[408] garland is flung down, and the song ceaseth.
Is this my favour? Am I crown’d with scorn?
Then thus I manumit my slaved condition.
Celia, but hear me execrate thy love.
By Heaven, that once was conscious of my love;
By all that is, that knows my all was thine,
I will pursue with detestation;
Thwart with outstretchèd[409] vehemence of hate,
Thy wishèd Hymen! I will craze my brain,
But I’ll[410] dissever all. Thy hopes unite:
What rage so violent as love turn’d spite! 120
Enter Randolfo and Andrea, with a supplication, reading.
Ran. Humbly complaining, kissing the hands of your excellence, your poor orators Randolfo and Andrea beseecheth, forbidding of the dishonour’d match of their niece Celia, widow, to their brother——
O ’twill do; ’twill do; it cannot choose but do.
And. What should one say?—what should one do now? Umph!
If she do match with yon same wand’ring knight,
She’s but undone; her estimation, wealth——