Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear.—
Luc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return.—
Jul. The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet musick with the enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,