Over. You do conclude too fast; not knowing me, Nor the engines that I work by. "T is not alone The Lady Allworth's lands; but point out any man's In all the shire, and say they lie convenient And useful for your lordship; and once more, I say aloud they are yours. Lov. I dare not own What's by unjust and cruel means extorted: Over. Over. You run, my lord, no hazard⚫ Your reputation shall stand as fair In all good men's opinions as now: Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill, Of what concerns you in all points of honour, Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot That may take from your innocence and candour. All my ambition is to have my daughter Right honourable; which my lord can make her: And might I live to dance upon my knee I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. And take it on mine own; for though I ruin The country to supply your riotous waste; Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations Over. Yes, as rocks are When foamy billows split themselves against Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness. I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword, If called into the field, 1 can make that right Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries, Or the least sting of conscience. Lov. The toughness of your nature. Over. I admire "T is for you, My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. JOHN FORD, 1586-1639. Contention of a Bird and a Musician (From the Lover's Melancholy.) MENAPHON and AMETHUS. Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feigned To glorify their Tempe, bred in me To Thessaly I came; and living private, Men. I shall soon resolve you. This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, Amet. And so do I; good! on Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; He could not run division with more art The nightingale, did with her various notes That such they were, than hope to hear again. Men. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight. Amet. Now for the bird. Men. The bird, ordained to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his lute, And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse, To weep a funeral elegy of tears: That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me Amet. I believe thee. Men. He looked upon the trophies of his art, Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried: Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Passed but just now by your next neighbour's house, The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace |