Luc. Sure I should know you.
Ench. Why, love? doubt you that?
Twas I that lead you through the painted meadows,
When the light Fairies daunst upon the flowers,
Hanging on every leafe an orient pearle[73]
Which, strooke together with the silver winde
Of their loose mantels, made a silvery chime.
Twas I that winding my shrill bugle horn,
Made a guilt pallace breake out of the hill,
Filled suddenly with troopes of knights and dames
Who daunst and reveld whilste we sweetly slept
Upon a bed of Roses, wrapt all in goulde.
Doost thou not know me yet?
Luc. Yes, now I know you.
Ench. Come then, confirme thy knowledge with a kiss.
Luc. Nay, stay, you are not he: how strange is this!
Ench. Thou art growne passing strange, my love, To him that made thee so long since his bride.
Luc. O, was it you? come then. O stay a while: I know not what[74] I am nor where I am, Nor you, nor these I know, nor any thing.
Enter Flores with Hance and the Peasant.
Pea. This is the greene, Sir, where I had the cup, And this the bottome of a falling hill; This way I went following the sound. And see—
Han. O see, and seeing eate withall.