No more: to what end?
Why should I write this downe, that's riueted,
Screw'd to my memorie. She hath bin reading late,
The Tale of Tereus, heere the leaffe's turn'd downe
Where Philomele gaue vp. I haue enough,
To'th' Truncke againe, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you Dragons of the night, that dawning
May beare the Rauens eye: I lodge in feare,
Though this a heauenly Angell: hell is heere.
Clocke strikes
One, two, three: time, time.
Enter.
Scena Tertia.
Enter Clotten, and Lords.
1. Your Lordship is the most patient man in losse, the
most coldest that euer turn'd vp Ace
Clot. It would make any man cold to loose
1. But not euery man patient after the noble temper
of your Lordship; You are most hot, and furious when
you winne.
Winning will put any man into courage: if I could get
this foolish Imogen, I should haue Gold enough: it's almost
morning, is't not?
1 Day, my Lord
Clot. I would this Musicke would come: I am aduised
to giue her Musicke a mornings, they say it will penetrate.
Enter Musitians.
Come on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering,
so: wee'l try with tongue too: if none will do, let
her remaine: but Ile neuer giue o're. First, a very excellent
good conceyted thing; after a wonderful sweet aire,
with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.
SONG.
Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings,
and Phoebus gins arise,
His Steeds to water at those Springs
on chalic'd Flowres that lyes:
And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes
With euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise:
Arise, arise.
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