LOVE. Yet never dead, and yet Love doth not live, Love, that to loss in life her folly led[249], Folly the food whereon her frailty fed, Frailty the milk that Nature's breast did give: Life, loss, and folly: frailty, food, and kind, Worm, sting, thorns, fire, and torment to the mind; Life but a breath, and folly but a flower, Frailty, clay, dust, the food that fancy scorns; Love a sweet bait to cover losses sour, Flesh breeds the fire that kindles lustful thorns; Lust, fire, bait, scorn, dust, flower and feeble breath, Die, quench, deceive, flie, fade, and yield to death. To death? O good! if death might finish all: We die each day, and yet for death we call. LUCRE. For death we call, yet death is still in sight. Lucre doth scald in drops of melting gold Accusing rust calls on eternal night[250], Where flames consume, and yet we freeze with cold. Sorrow adds sulphur unto fury's heat, And chops them ice whose chattering teeth do beat; But sulphur, snow, flame, frost, nor hideous crying Can cause them die that ever are in dying, Nor make the pain diminish or increase: Sorrow is slack, and yet will never cease. SORROW. When Sorrow ceaseth, Shame shall then begin With those that wallow senseless in their sin. But, ladies, I have drawn you from my den To open air, to mitigate some moan. Conscience, sit down upon that sweating stone, And let that flint, Love, serve thee for a seat; And, Lady Lucre, on that stone rest you. And, ladies, thus I leave you here alone. Mourn ye, but moan not I shall absent be; But good it were sometime to think on me. [_Exit_.] CONSCIENCE. Comfort it is to think on sorrow past. LOVE. Sorrow remains, where joy is but a blast. LUCRE. A blast of wind is world's felicity. CONSCIENCE. A blasting wind, and full of misery. LOVE. O Conscience, thou hast more tormented me. LUCRE. Me hath thy worm, O Conscience, stung too deep. CONSCIENCE. But more myself my thoughts tormented have, Than both of you, in Sorrow's sullen cave; From whence drawn forth, I find but little rest: A seat uneasy, wet, and scalding hot, On this hard stone hath Sorrow me assign'd. LOVE. And on my seat myself I frozen find: No flint more hard, no ice more cold than this. LUCRE. I think my seat some mineral stone to be; I cold from it, it draw[eth] heat from me. Ladies, consent, and we our seats will view. CONSCIENCE. Dare we for shame our stained faces shew? LOVE. My double face is single grown again. LUCRE. My spots are gone: my skin is smooth and plain. CONSCIENCE. Doff we our veils, and greet this gladsome light; The chaser of gloom, Sorrow's heavy night[251]. LOVE. Hail, cheerful air, and clearest crystal sky. LUCRE. Hail, shining sun and fairest firmament, Comfort to those that time in woe have spent. CONSCIENCE. Upon my weeping stone is set REMORSE in brazen letters. LOVE. And on this flint in lead is CHARITY. LUCRE. In golden letters on my stone is CARE.