Hor. Marke, to thee whose fore-head swels with Roses.
Asin. O sweet, but will there be no exceptions taken, because fore-head and swelling comes together?
Hor. Push away, away, its proper, besides tis an elegancy to say the fore head swels.
Asin. Nay an’t be proper, let it stand for Gods loue.
Hor. Whose most haunted bower,
Giues life and sent to euery flower,
Whose most adored name incloses,
Things abstruse, deep and diuine.
Whose yellow tresses shine,
Bright as Eoan fire.
Asini. O pure, rich, ther’s heate in this, on, on.
Hor. Bright as Eoan fire,
O me thy Priest inspire!
For I to thee and thine immortall name —— marke this.
In flowing numbers fild with spryte and flame.
Asini. I mary, ther’s spryte and flame in this.
Hor. A pox, a this Tobacco.
Asin. Wod this case were my last, if I did not marke, nay all’s one, I haue alwayes a consort of Pypes about me, myne Ingle is all fire and water; I markt, by this Candle (which is none of Gods Angels) I remember, you started back at sprite and flame.