Io. It will not all be worth a cup of Ale.
Ara. A short discourse of that which is too long,
How ever pleasing, can never seeme but wrong;
Yet would my tragicke story fit the stage:
Pleasaunt in youth but wretched in mine age,
Blinde fortune setting vp and pulling downe,
Abusde by those my selfe raisde to renowne:
But that which wrings me neer and wounds my hart,
Is a false brothers base vnthankfull part.
Asca. A smal offence comparde with my disease;
No doubt ingratitude in time may cease
And be forgot: my grief out lives all howres,
Raining on my head continual, haplesse showers.
Ara. You sing of yours and I of mine relate,
To every one seemes worst his owne estate.
But to proceed: exiled thus by spight,
Both country I forgoe and brothers sight,
And comming hither, where I thought to live,
Yet here I cannot but lament and greeve.
Asca. Some comfort yet in this there doth remaine, That you have found a partner in your paine.
Ara. How are your sorrowes subiect? let me heare.
Asca. More overthrowne and deeper in dispaire
Than is the manner of your heavie smart,
My carelesse griefe doth ranckle at my hart;
And, in a word to heare the summe of all,
I love and am beloved, but there-withall
The sweetnesse of that banquet must forgo,
Whose pleasant tast is chaungde with bitter wo.
Ara. A conflict but to try your noble minde; As common vnto youth as raine to winde.
Asca. But hence it is that doth me treble wrong, Expected good that is forborne so long Doth loose the vertue which the vse would prove.
Ara. Are you then, sir, despised of your Love?