Leon. I felt, the while, a pleasing kind of smart; That kiss went, tingling, to my very heart. When it was gone, the sense of it did stay; The sweetness clinged upon my lips all day, Like drops of honey, loth to fall away.

Το

Palm. Life, like a prodigal, gave all his store my first youth, and now can give no more. You are a prince; and, in that high degree, No longer must converse with humble me. Leon. 'Twas to my loss the gods that title gave; A tyrant's son is doubly born a slave:

He gives a crown; but, to prevent my life
From being happy, loads it with a wife.

Palm. Speak quickly; what have you resolved to do?

Leon. To keep my faith inviolate to you.
He threatens me with exile, and with shame,
To lose my birthright, and a prince's name;
But there's a blessing which he did not mean,
To send me back to love and you again.

Palm. Why was not I a princess for
your
But heaven no more such miracles can make:
And, since that cannot, this must never be;
You shall not lose a crown for love of me.
Live happy, and a nobler choice pursue;
I shall complain of fate, but not of you.

sake?

Leon. Can you so easily without me live?
Or could you take the counsel, which you give?
Were you a princess, would you not be true?

Palm. I would; but cannot merit it from you.
Leon. Did you not merit, as you do, my heart,
Love gives esteem, and then it gives desert.
But if I basely could forget my vow,

Poor helpless innocence, what would you do? Palm. In woods, and plains, where first my love began,

There would I live, retired from faithless man:

I'd sit all day within some lonely shade,

Or that close arbour which your hands have made:`
I'd search the groves, and every tree, to find
Where you had carved our names upon the rind:
Your hook, your scrip, all that was yours, I'd keep,
And lay them by me when I went to sleep.
Thus would I live: And maidens, when I die,
Upon my hearse white true-love-knots should tie;
And thus my tomb should be inscribed above,
Here the forsaken Virgin rests from love.

Leon. Think not that time or fate shall e'er di-
vide

Those hearts, which love and mutual vows have

tied.

But we must part; farewell, my love.

Palm. Till when?

Leon. Till the next age of hours we meet again. Meantime, we may,

When near each other we in public stand,
Contrive to catch a look, or steal a hand:
Fancy will every touch and glance improve;
And draw the most spirituous parts of love.
Our souls sit close, and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

ACT III. SCENE I.

[Exeunt.

Enter RHODOPHIL, meeting DORALICE and ARTEMIS; RHODOPHIL and DORALICE embrace.

Rho. My own dear heart!

Dor. My own true love! [She starts back.] I had forgot myself to be so kind; indeed, I am very an

gry with you, dear; you are come home an hour after you appointed: if you had staid a minute longer, I was just considering whether I should stab, hang, or drown myself. [Embracing him.

Rho. Nothing but the king's business could have hindered me; and I was so vexed, that I was just laying down my commission, rather than have failed my dear. [Kisses her hand.

Arte. Why, this is love as it should be betwixt man and wife: such another couple would bring marriage into fashion again. But is it always thus betwixt you?

Rho. Always thus! this is nothing. I tell you, there is not such a pair of turtles in Sicily; there is such an eternal cooing and kissing betwixt us, that indeed it is scandalous before civil company.

Dor. Well, if I had imagined I should have been this fond fool, I would never have married the man I loved: I married to be happy, and have made myself miserable by over-loving. Nay, and now my case is desperate; for I have been married above these two years, and find myself every day worse and worse in love: nothing but madness can be the end on't.

Arte. Doat on, to the extremity, and you are happy.

Dor. He deserves so infinitely much, that, the truth is, there can be no doating in the matter; but, to love well, I confess, is a work that pays itself: 'Tis telling gold, and, after, taking it for one's pains.

Rho. By that I should be a very covetous person; for I am ever pulling out my money, and putting it into my pocket again.

Dor. O dear Rhodophil!

Rho. O sweet Doralice! [Embracing each other. Arte. [Aside.] Nay, I am resolved, I'll never in

terrupt lovers: I'll leave them as happy as I found

them.

Rho. What, is she gone?

[Steals away. [Looking up.

Dor. Yes; and without taking leave.
Rho. Then there's enough for this time.

[Parting from her. Dor. Yes, sure, the scene is done, I take it. They walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune.

Rho. Pox o'your dull tune, a man can't think for you.

Dor. Pox o'your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy.

Rho. Well, thou art the most provoking wife! Dor. Well, thou art the dullest husband, thou art never to be provoked.

Rho. I was never thought 'dull till I married thee; and now thou hast made an old knife of me; thou hast whetted me so long, till I have no edge left.

Dor. I see you are in the husband's fashion; you reserve all your good humours for your mistresses, and keep your ill for your wives.

Rho. Prythee leave me to my own cogitations; I am thinking over all my sins, to find for which of them it was I married thee.

Dor. Whatever your sin was, mine's the punishment.

Rho. My comfort is, thou art not immortal; and, when that blessed, that divine day comes of thy departure, I'm resolved I'll make one holiday more in the almanack for thy sake.

Dor. Ay, you had need make a holiday for me, for I am sure you have made me a martyr.

Rho. Then, setting my victorious foot upon thy head, in the first hour of thy silence, (that is, the first hour thou art dead, for I despair of it before) I will swear by thy ghost,-an oath as terrible to me as Styx is to the gods,-never more to be in danger of the banes of matrimony.

Dor. And I am resolved to marry the very same day thou diest, if it be but to show how little I'm concerned for thee.

Rho. Pray thee, Doralice, why do we quarrel thus a-days? ha! this is but a kind of heathenish life, and does not answer the ends of marriage. If I have erred, propound what reasonable atonement may be made before we sleep, and I will not be refractory; but withal consider, I have been married these three years, and be not too tyrannical.

Dor. What should you talk of a peace a-bed, when you can give no security for performance of articles?

Rho. Then, since we must live together, and both of us stand upon our terms, as to matters of dying first, let us make ourselves as merry as we can with our misfortunes. Why, there's the devil on't! if thou could'st make my enjoying thee but a little easy, or a little more unlawful, thou should'st see what a termagant lover I would prove. I have taken such pains to enjoy thee, Doralice, that I have fancied thee all the fine women of the town-to help me out: But now there's none left for me to think on, my imagination is quite jaded. Thou art a wife, and thou wilt be a wife, and I can make thee another no longer. [Exit RHO.

Dor. Well, since thou art a husband, and wilt be a husband, I'll try if I can find out another. 'Tis a pretty time we women have on't, to be made widows while we are married. Our husbands think it reasonable to complain, that we are the same, and