Wither it would, but the bee
Over the blossom hovers,
And the sweet life ere it flee
With as sweet art recovers,
Sweetest at night in his cell,
Fairest of flowers, Isabel.
Isab. (aside). How have I deserved this?
Lope (knocking over his chair). This is not to be borne!
Cres. (upsetting the table). No more it is!
Lope. I meant my leg.