Gera. The sun is yet wrapp'd in Aurora's arms,
And, lull'd with her delight, forgets us[184] creatures.
Awake, thou god of heat,
I call thee up, and task[185] thee for thy slowness.
Point all thy beams through yonder flaring glass,
And raise a beauty brighter than thyself.
[Music.
Musicians, give each instrument a tongue,
To breathe sweet music in the ears of her
To whom I send it as a messenger.
Enter Gertrude aloft.
Gert. Sir, your music is so good, that I must say I like it: but the bringer so ill-welcome, that I could be content to lose it. If you played for money, there 'tis; if for love, here's none; if for goodwill, I thank you, and, when you will, you may be gone.
Gera. Leave me not entranc'd; sing not my death;
Thy voice is able to make satyrs tame,
And call rough winds to her obedience.
Gert. Sir, sir, our ears itch not for flattery.
Here you besiege my window, and[186] I dare not
Put forth myself to take the gentle air,
But you are in the fields, and volley out
Your woes, your plaints, your loves, your injuries.
Gera. Since you have heard, and know them, give redress;
True beauty never yet was merciless.
Gert. Sir, rest thus satisfied; my mind was never woman, never altered; nor shall it now begin: so fare you well.
[Exit Gertrude.
W. Rash. 'Sfoot, she plays the terrible tyrannising Tamberlane over him. This it is to turn Turk; from a most absolute, complete gentleman to a most absurd, ridiculous, and fond lover.
[Aside.]
Long. O, when a woman knows the power and authority of her eye!——
[Aside.]