Ire. Here.
Cle. I pray read them.
Ire. What have I deserved of you, good Cleon, that you should make me read his verses in his own presence? If you think I have not already as ill an opinion of him as I can have, you lose your labour.
Cle. Read them, and I'll assure you you'll find things well said and seriously; and you will alter your opinion of him.
Ire. Pray give them me, I long to be working wonders. [She reads single words.] Rubies, Pearls, Roses, Heaven. Do you not think he has done my cousin a simple favour, comparing of her voice to that of heaven?
Cle. 'Tis his love makes him do it; not finding any thing on earth fit to express her, he searcheth heaven for a similitude.
Ire. Alas! good gentleman, 'tis the first time he ever thought on't; what frequent thunders should I hear, if 'twere as he would have it? Let me counsel you: lay them aside till they have contracted an inch of dust, then with your finger write their epitaph, expressing the mutual quiet they gave men, and received from them; or, as all poisons serve for some use, give them your physician, and let him apply them to his patient for a vomit—this way they may be useful.
Cle. However you esteem them, such an elogy would make you think your glass had not yet flattered you.
Ire. It cannot; I prevent it, and accuse it for not showing the hills of snow, the rubies, and the roses they say have being from me. But stay—heaven opens, and I see a tempest coming; your poet is a prophet.
Her. I'll call an oath to be my witness.