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Thy tender youth: A love from me to thee
Bel. I will fly as far
[Exit Pbị. Scene, Arethusa’s apartment.
But that I know my love will question him
King. What, at your meditations! Who attends
Are. None but my fingle felf, I need no guard; I do no wrong, nor fear none.
King. Tell me, have you not a boy?
Are. I think he be not ugly;
King, He speaks, and sings, and plays ?
Are. Good Sir, let me understand you.
King. If you fear me,
Are. Let me have reafon for it, Sir, and then Your will is my command,
King. Do you not blush to ask it? Caft him off, Or I fhall do the same to you. Shame with me, and fo near unto myfelf, That, by my life, I dare not tell myself What you have done.
Are. What have I done, my lord ?
King. Understand me well ; There be foul whispers stirring; cast him off, And suddenly do it. Farewell. [Exit King,
Are. Where may a maiden live securely free, Keeping her honour fafe? Not with the living: They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams, And make 'em truths: They draw a nourishment Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces, And when they fee a virtue fortified Strongly above the battery of their tongues, Oh, how they cast to fink it! and defeated
(Soul(Soul-fick with poison) strike the monuments Where noble names lie fleeping !
Enter Philafter. Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, my deareft
miftress! Are. Oh, my dear fervant, I have a war within me. Phi. He must be more than man, that makes
Are. Oh, my best love; that boy! :
Phi. Oh, my fortune !
Are. Oh, cruel,
How much I loy'd you? Who shall swear it to you, And weep the tears I send? Who shall now bring
you Letters, rings, bracelets, lose his health in service? Wake tedious nights in stories of your praise ? Who now shall sing your crying elegies, And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures, And make them mourn? Who fhall take up his lute, And touch it, till he crown a filent sleep Upon my eyelid, making me dream and cry, Oh, my dear, dear Philaster!
Phi. Oh, my heart! 'Would he had broken thee, that made thee know This lady was not loyal ! Mistress, forget The boy, I'll get thee a far better one.
Are. Oh, never, never, such a boy again, As my Bellario.
Phi. 'Tis but your fond affection.
Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for ever
Phi. And all this passion for a boy?
Are. He was your boy; you gave him to me, and The loss of such must have a mourning for,