_An[g]_. Then we may walk. _Cha_. And talk of any thing,
Any thing fit for your eares, and my language;
Though I was bred up dull I was ever civil;
Tis true, I have found it hard to looke on you,
And not desire; Twil prove a wise mans task;
Yet those desires I have so mingled still
And tempered with the quality of honour,
That if you should yeeld, I should hate you for't.
I am no Courtier of a light condition,
Apt to take fire at every beautious face.
That onely serves his will and wantonness,
And lets the serious part run by
As thin neglected sand. Whitness of name,
You must be mine; why should I robbe my selfe
Of that that lawfully must make me happy?
Why should I seeke to cuckold my delights,
And widow all those sweets I aime at in you?
We'l loose our selves in _Venus_ groves of mirtle
Where every little bird shall be a _Cupid_,
And sing of love and youth, each winde that blowes
And curles the velvet leaves shall breed delights,
The wanton springs shall call us to their bankes,
And on the perfum'd flowers wee'l feast our senses,
Yet wee'l walk by untainted of their pleasures,
And as they were pure Temples wee'l talk in them.
_Ang_. To bed, and pray then, we may have a faire end
Of our faire loves; would I [w]ere worthy of you,
Or of such parents that might give you thankes;
But I am poore in all but in your love.
Once more, good night. _Cha_. A good night t'ye, and may
The dew of sleepe fall gently on you, sweet one,
And lock up those faire lights in pleasing slumbers;
No dreames but chast and cleare attempt your fancie,
And break betimes sweet morne, I've lost my light else.
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