Such is love’s pain, as it hath lit on me;
And tinctured by it I would dream my day,
Nor count the sailing hour, but when night falls
Be closèd up, like a belated bee
In the pale lily of death.
D.Now you all hear!
R. (aside). Heavens! a belated bee!
D.Thy lover, Laura;
What say’st thou?
L.O beautiful.