_Beauty cleere and faire,
where the aire
Rather like a perfume dwells,
Where the violet and the rose
The blew veines in blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else.
Where to live neere,
And planted there,
Is to live, and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is
More then light, perpetual blisse,
Make me live by serving you.
Deare again backe recal
to this light,
A stranger to himselfe and all;
Both the wonder and the story
Shall be yours, and eke the Glory,
I am your servant, and your thrall._
_Mir._ Speake such another Ode, and take all yet.
What say ye to the Scholar now? _Ang._ I wonder;
Is he your brother, Sir? _Bust._ Yes, would he were buried,
I feare hee'l make an asse of me a younger.
_Ang._ Speake not so softly Sir, tis very likely.
_Bri._ Come leave your finical talke, and let's dispatch, _Charles_.
_Cha._ Dispatch? What? _Bri._ Why the land. _Cha._ You are deceiv'd, Sir,
Now I perceive what 'tis that woes a woman,
And what maintaines her when shee's woo'd: Ile stop here.
A wilfull poverty nere made a beauty,
Nor want of meanes maintain'd it vertuously:
Though land and monies be no happinesse,
Yet they are counted good additions.
That use Ile make; He that neglects a blessing,
Though he want present knowledge how to use it,
Neglects himself; May be I have done you wrong Lady,
Whose love and hope went hand in hand together;
May be my brother, that has long expected
The happie houre and blest my ignorance;
Pray give me leave Sir, I shall cleare all doubts.
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