Frank. Wherefore dost weep now?
Sus. You, sweet, have the power
To make me passionate as an April-day;
Now smile, then weep; now pale, then crimson red:
You are the powerful moon of my blood’s sea,
To make it ebb or flow into my face,
As your looks change.
Frank. Change thy conceit, I prithee;
Thou art all perfection: Diana herself
Swells in thy thoughts and moderates thy beauty.
Within thy left eye amorous Cupid sits,
Feathering love-shafts, whose golden heads he dipped
In[430] thy chaste breast; in the other lies
Blushing Adonis scarfed in modesties;
And still as wanton Cupid blows love-fires,
Adonis quenches out unchaste desires;
And from these two I briefly do imply
A perfect emblem of thy modesty.
Then, prithee, dear, maintain no more dispute,
For when thou speak’st, it’s fit all tongues be mute.
Sus. Come, come, these golden strings of flattery
Shall not tie up my speech, sir; I must know
The ground of your disturbance.
Frank. Then look here;
For here, here is the fen in which this hydra
Of discontent grows rank.
Sus. Heaven shield it! where?
Frank. In mine own bosom, here the cause has root;
The poisoned leeches twist about my heart,
And will, I hope, confound me.
Sus. You speak riddles.
Frank. Take’t plainly, then: ’twas told me by a woman
Known and approved in palmistry,
I should have two wives.
Sus. Two wives? sir, I take it
Exceeding likely; but let not conceit hurt you:
You’re afraid to bury me?