Queen. There's not a wit, but under some feign'd name
Implores thy beauty: sleep cannot close up
Thy eyes, but the sad world benighted is,
Or else their sonnets are apocryphal:
And when thou wak'st, the lark salutes the day,
Breaking from the bright east of thy fair eyes.
And if 'mong thy admirers there be some
Poor drossy brain, who cannot rhyme thy praise,
He wooes in sorry prose.
Enter Servant.
Ser. Half of the city
Already is possess'd by th' enemy!
Our soldiers fly from the assailants, who
With moderation use their victory.
So far from drawing blood, th' abstain from spoil.
Queen. My comforts now grow charitable. This
Is the first dawning of some happier fortune. [Aside.
Flo. Where did you leave my lord?
Ser. Retiring hither.
Queen. And your good nature will in time, Cleantha,
Believe all flattery for truth.
Cle. In time
I shall not: but for the present, madam, give
Leave to my youth to think I may be prais'd,
And merit it. Hereafter, when I shall
Owe art my beauty, I shall grow perhaps
Suspicious there's small faith in poetry.
Queen. Can'st thou think of hereafter? Poor Cleantha!
Hereafter is that time th' art bound to pray
Against: hereafter is that enemy
That without mercy will destroy thy face;
And what's a lady then?
Cle. A wretched thing!
A very wretched thing! So scorn'd and poor,
'Twill scarce deserve man's pity; and I'm sure
No arms can e'er relieve it.