Enter to him Mirtillus.
Mir. Ay, let me alone.
Sings.
He that mourns for a mistress,
When he knows not where she is,
Let him kiss her shadow fair,,
Or engender with the air;
Or see, if with his tears he can
Swell at an ebb the ocean:
Then, if he had not rather die,
Let him love none, or all, as I.
This is the doctrine that I ever taught you,
And yet you profit not: these scurvy passions
Hang on you still. You that are young and active,
That may have all our nymphs at your devotion,
To live a whining kind of life as this,
How ill it does become you!
Thyr. True, Mirtillus;
And yet I do not envy thee the pleasure
Thou hast in thy dispers'd affections.
Mir. You would, if your head were right once; but love—
Your love does make an ass of all your reason.
Thyr. Sure, a true lover is more rational
Than you, that love at random everywhere.
Mir. I do not think so; all the reason love
Has left you to employ in this discourse
Will hardly bring me to confess it to you.
Thyr. Why, all men's actions have some proper end,
Whereto their means and strict endeavours tend:
Else there would be nought but perplexity
In human life, and all uncertainty.