And, in the place of overwhelming sorrow,
Let the dear plant of smiling joy bud forth:
And should she weep, then may her dewy tears
Be those of tender peace and charity.
Fool. By my troth, mine eyes did never water so before: sweet mistress, an thou hast charm’d thy Fool, methinks the choir o’ angels needs must listen to thy prayer: and yet these underprops o’ mine do sorely ache; and wherefore should they? for an I do eat, then am I loaded, and do bear it well; but now that I am empty, these porters wont carry me; this is strange, and needs more wisdom to unveil than lies in my poor, foolish brain.
Fla. Methinks, I’d sit and rest me here awhile.
Pas. Then to the shade of yon imperial oak
I’ll lead thee; there thou calmly may’st repose:
Our honest knave the while shall sing a strain,
And sooth thy sad and secret melancholy.