[128] Lys. How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
[130] Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well
[131] Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.
[132] Lys. Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;
135 But, either it was different in blood,—
[136] Her. O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low.
Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years,—