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Hum. Do not regard their toys;
Be but my darling, age to free thee
From her curse, shall fall a-dying ;
Shall forget his art of flying.
[To HEALTH. Health. Leave her; take this, and travel through
the world, I'll bring thee into all the courts of kings, Where thou shalt stay, and learn their languages; Kiss ladies, revel out the nights in dancing, The day [in] manly pastimes; snatch from Time His glass, and let the golden sands run forth As thou shalt jog them ; riot it, go brave, Spend half a world, my queen shall bear thee out: Yet all this while, though thou climb hills of years, Shall not one wrinkle sit upon thy brow, Nor any
sickness shake thee; Youth and Health, As slaves, shall lackey by thy chariot wheels : And who, for two such jewels, would not sell Th' East and West Indies? both are thine, so
Fol. All lies! gallop over the world, and not grow old, nor be sick ? a lie. One gallant went but into France last day, and was never his own
• Leave her, take this, and travel through the world.] It is plain, from Folly's next speech, that this is the true reading : the old copy has,--take this, and travel, tell the world.
man since; another stept but into the Low Countries, and was drunk dead under the table; another did but peep into England, and it cost him more in good-morrows blown up to him under his window, by drums and trumpets, than his whole voyage; besides, he ran mad upon’t.?
Hum. Here's my last farewell: ride along with me; I'll raise by art out of base earth a palace,
a crystal stream,
? I scarcely know how to understand this. France and the Low Countries are characterised by their well known attributes ; but the greeting of strangers (if that be the poet's meaning) was never before, I believe, made the distinctive mark of England. It is sufficiently clear, however, that the streets of London were grievously infested with noises (little knots) of fiddlers, who pressed into all companies, and pestered every new-comer with their salutations. Thus, Withers :
Oh ! how I scorn
At strangers' windows !-Malto. • Here again something is apparently lost;—perhaps a description of the palace-garden. All that can be done is to mark the omission.
Ray. I'll hear no more :
TO HUMOUR: Spring. Oh, I am sick at heart! unthankful man, 'Tis thou hast wounded me; farewell!
[She is led in by DELIGHT. Ray. Farewell.
Fol. Health, recover her; sirrah Youth, look to her.
Health. That bird that in her nest sleeps out
May fly in summer; but--with sickly wing.
[Exeunt HEALTH and Youth.
Hum. If she does,
Ray. Against the morning
Fol. It shall not need.
Ray. 'Tis like it shall not need; This is your Folly?
Hum. He shall be ever yours.
Fol. I hope ever to be mine own folly; he's one of our fellows. Hum. In triumph now I lead thee;—no, be thou
Cæsar, And lead me.
Ray. Neither; we'll ride with equal state Both in one chariot, since we have equal fate.
Hum. Each do his office to this man, your
lord; For though Delight, and Youth, and Health should
leave him, This ivory-gated palace shall receive him,
· ACT III. SCENE I.
The Confines of Spring and Summer.
Enter RAYBRIGHT melancholy.
Ray. Oh, my dear love the Spring, I am cheated
of thee! Thou hadst a body, the four elements Dwelt never in a fairer ; a mind, princely: Thy language, like thy singers, musical. How cool wert thou in anger! in thy diet, How temperate, and yet sumptuous! thou wouldst
not waste The weight of a sad violet in excess; Yet still thy board had dishes numberless : Dumb beasts even loved thee; once a young lark Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes, Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.
Fol. I have done, my lord; my muse has pump'd hard for an epitaph upon the late departed Spring, and here her lines spring up.
Fol. Read! so I will, please you to reach me your high ears.
Here lies the blithe Spring,
Who first taught birds to sing;
Then May growing hot,
A sweating sickness she got,
Yet no month can say,
But her merry daughter May
The cuckow sung in verse
An epitaph o'er her hearse, But assure you the lines were not dainty. Ray. No more are thine, thou idiot! hast thou
To poison with thy nasty jigs but mine,
Fol. I am not in it; if I were, you'd see but scurvily. You find fault as patrons do with books, to give nothing Ray. Yes, bald one, beastly base one; blockish
away! Vex me not, fool; turn out o’ doors your roarer, French tailor, and that Spanish ginger-bread, And
your Italian skipper; then, sir, yourself. Fol, Myself! Carbonado me, bastinado me,