Edm. Ay, ay! I understand thee, it is flown;
My poor brain, alas! is sore distemper’d.
Sweet, sweet, come from yon branch, here’s food for thee:
My pretty birds, come back, I will not harm ye;
My bosom, as your little nest, is warm,
And is as soft, ay, and full of comfort, too.
Nay, stop! it is too warm, come not! twill burn ye.
2nd Maid. My tears do flow for her so plenteously,
That I have left in me no power to help her.
Edm. O! you great gods! why pelt ye thus my brain,