Frank. Never any
Equal to thee in goodness.
Sus. Sir, I could wish I were much better for you;
Yet if I knew your fate
Ordained you for another, I could wish—
So well I love you and your hopeful pleasure—
Me in my grave, and my poor virtues added
To my successor.
Frank. Prithee, prithee, talk not
Of deaths or graves; thou art so rare a goodness
As Death would rather put itself to death
Than murder thee: but we, as all things else,
Are mutable and changing.
Sus. Yet you still move
In your first sphere of discontent. Sweet, chase
Those clouds of sorrow, and shine clearly on me.
Frank. At my return I will.
Sus. Return! ah me!
Will you, then, leave me?
Frank. For a time I must:
But how? As birds their young, or loving bees
Their hives, to fetch home richer dainties.
Sus. Leave me!
Now has my fear met its effect. You shall not;
Cost it my life, you shall not.
Frank. Why? your reason?
Sus. Like to the lapwing have you all this while
With your false love deluded me, pretending
Counterfeit senses for your discontent;
And now at last it is by chance stole from you.