_Goos_. The Moone, sir _Cut_: I scorne the Moone yfaith. Slydd, sometimes a man shall not get her to shine, and if he wood give her a couple of Capons, and one of them must be white too. God forgive me, I cud never abide her since yesterday, she seru'd me such a tricke tother night. _Rud_. What tricke, sir _Gyles_? _Goos_. Why sir _Cut_. cause the daies be mortall, and short now you know, and I love daie light well; I thought it went away faster than it needed, and run after it into _Finsbury_-fieldes ith calme evening to see the wind-Mils goe; and even as I was going over a Ditch the Moone by this light of purpose runnes me behind a Cloud, and lets me fall into the Ditch by Heaven. _Rud_. That was ill done in her, indeed sir _Gyles_. _Goos_. Ill done sir _Cut_? Slydd a man may beare, and beare, but, and she have noe more good manners, but to make every blacke slovenly Cloud a pearle in her eye I shall nere love English Moone againe, while I live, Ile be sworne to ye. _Foul_. Come, Knights, to London: Horse, Horse, Horse. _Rud_. In what a case he is with the poor English Moone, because the _French_ Moones (their Torches) will be the lesse in fashion, and I warrent you the Captaine will remember it too: tho he say nothing, he seconds his resolute chase so, and follows him, Ile lay my life you shall see them the next cold night, shut the Mooneshine out of their Chambers, and make it lie without Doores all night. I discredit my wit with their company, now I thinke on't, plague a god on them; Ile fall a beating on them presently. [_Exit_. [SCENE 2.] _Enter Lord Momford, and Clarence. Clarence, Horatio_. _Cla_. Sing good _Horatio_, while I sigh, and write. According to my master _Platos_ minde, The soule is musicke, and doth therefore joy In accents musicall, which he that hates With points of discord is together tyed, And barkes at _Reason_, Consonant in sense. Divine _Eugenia_, beares the ocular forme Of musicke, and of _Reason_, and presents The soule exempt from flesh in flesh inflam'd[31]; Who must not love her then, that loves his soule? To her I write; my friend, the starre[32] of friends Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eies And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume In the white flames of her impassionate love, Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze. For I am desperate of all worldly joyes, And there was never man so harsh to men. When I am fullest of digested life I seeme a livelesse _Embrion_ to all, Each day rackt up in night-like Funerall. Sing, good _Horatio_, whilst I sigh, and write. _Canto. The Letter. Suffer him to love that suffers not loving; my love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration._