The mortal olive of immortal love.
Hen. To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia,
To bind me here; and if you love me true,
You will not ask me where I go or stay,
But that your feet may stay or go with mine.
Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips
That all their life have ripened for this kiss.
[Kisses her]
O ruby purities! I would not give
Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran