Not the Phœnix in his death,
Nor those banks, where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yield a perfume like her breath.
But O! marriage makes the spell:
And 'tis poison, if I smell.
The twin-beauties of the skies
(When the half-sunk sailors haste
To rend sail, and cut their mast),
Shine not welcome as her eyes.
But those beams, than storms more black,
If they point at me, I wrack.
Then, for fear of such a fire,
Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite,
I must from my life retire.
But, O no! For, if her eye
Warm me not, I freeze and die.
During the song [the Queen falls into a slumber, and] enter Ascanio, Lerma, Sanmartino, &c.
Asc. Cease the uncivil murmur of the drum!
Nothing sound now, but gentle; such as may not
Disturb her quiet ear. Are you sure, Lerma,
Th' obedient soldier hath put up his sword?
Ler. The citizen and soldier gratulate
Each other, as divided friends new meeting:
Nor is there execution done, but in pursuit
Of th' enemy without the walls.
Asc. 'Tis very well. My lord, is that your queen?
San. It is the queen, sir.
Asc. Temper'd like the orbs
Which, while we mortals weary life in battle,
Move with perpetual harmony. No fear
Eclipseth the bright lustre of her cheek,
While we, who (infants) were swath'd up in steel,
And in our cradle lull'd asleep by th' cannon,
Grow pale at danger.
San. I'll acquaint her, sir,
That you attend here.