Love. Faith, I'm afraid what you say is true.
Fred. Then strive not to be rationally mad, which you attempt if you think you can at once be at your own command and at another's. Would you be master of yourself and have a mistress?
Love. But I can rebel against that mistress.
Fred. Do if you can. Nay, I'm sure 'tis in your power, because to-morrow morning you are to fight a rival for her—because though you know she lies backwards, and you can't so much as see her chamber window, you must needs walk hither. Well, I protest I'm of your mind; there is, me thinks, now a particular, amiable gloom about that house—though, perhaps, to ordinary beholders it is exactly like the others.
Love. You are very witty, I must confess, at your friend's follies, Mr. Frederick.
Fred. I won't then any longer disturb your meditation, but e'en go home like a dull rogue as I am, and without love enough to any woman, or hatred enough to any man, to keep me awake, fall fast asleep—I was going to wish you rest, but you are above all that. If it should rain, I'd advise you not to forget it does, but go into the Piazza. [Exit.
Love. 'Tis very well, I'm deservedly laughed at. But the door opens—Bookwit's footman! [Latine crosses the stage.] The master, I suppose, is there too. I'll watch for his coming out——The morning approaches too slowly. He shall not sleep to-night except it be for ever——Oh, revenge! Oh, jealousy!
Enter Young Bookwit, with bottle and glass, singing.[71]
Y. Book.
Since the day of poor man,
That little, little span,
Though long it can't last,
For the future and past
Is spent with remorse and despair.
With such a full glass
Let that of life pass,
'Tis made up of trouble,
A storm though a bubble,
There's no bliss but forgetting your care.