[SCENE 2.]
Enter Lord Momford, and Clarence. Clarence, Horatio.
Cla. Sing good Horatio, while I sigh, and write.
According to my master Platos minde,
The soule is musicke, and doth therefore joy
In accents musicall, which he that hates
With points of discord is together tyed,
And barkes at Reason, Consonant in sense.
Divine Eugenia, beares the ocular forme
Of musicke, and of Reason, and presents
The soule exempt from flesh in flesh inflam'd[31];
Who must not love her then, that loves his soule?
To her I write; my friend, the starre[32] of friends
Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eies
And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth
In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand
Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume
In the white flames of her impassionate love,
Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze.
For I am desperate of all worldly joyes,
And there was never man so harsh to men.
When I am fullest of digested life
I seeme a livelesse Embrion to all,
Each day rackt up in night-like Funerall.
Sing, good Horatio, whilst I sigh, and write.
_Canto.
The Letter.
Suffer him to love that suffers not loving; my love
is without passion, and therefore free from alteration._
Prose is too harsh, and Verse is Poetry.
Why shood I write; then? merrit[33] clad in inke
Is but a mourner, and as good as naked.
I will not write, my friend shall speake for me.
Sing one stave more, my good Horatio.
Canto.
I must remember I know whom I love
A dame of learning, and of life exempt
From all the idle fancies of her Sex,
And this, that to an other dame wood seeme
Perplext and foulded in a rudelesse[34] vaile,
Will be more cleere then ballads to her eye.
Ile write, if but to satisfie my friend.
Your third staunce sweet Horatio, and no more.
Canto.