MAR. Why so, now shall I not be troubled with vain chat Or idle prate of idle wantonness: For love I cannot, therefore 'tis in vain; Would all my suitors' tongues I thus could rein! Then should I live free from feign'd sighs and groans, With, _O, take pity, 'tis your servant moans_, And such harsh stuff, that frets me to the heart; And sonnets made of Cupid's burning dart, Of Venus' lip, and Juno's majesty; Then were I freed from fools and foolery. In May the cuckoo sings: then she'll come hither. Her voice and yours will rarely tune together. [_Exit_ MARIANA. _Enter_ FLORIO. FLO. Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you. [_Speaks louder and louder._ Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you. Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you. [PHILOCLES _strikes_ FLORIO, _and fells him_. FLO. The pox rot off your fingers for this blow! It is coronation-day thorough all my skull, There's such a fatal ringing in my brain: H' has won the set, has laid five fingers on: But 'twas a knavish part of him to play so. Hear me, ye gods: for this my open wrong, Make short his fingers, as you have his tongue. [_Exit_ FLORIO. _Enter_ MECHANT _alone_. MECH. 'Tis not man's fortune, envy, or neglect, Which makes him miserable; but 'tis mean fate, Even sole predestination, a firm gift Fix'd to his birth, before the world was made. For were it otherwise, then within our lives We should find some distractions, various[173] change. And other toys of much uncertainty: But my mishaps are fix'd so to my blood, They have no sire but my creation: The queen, out of suspicion that my love First set an edge upon the king's desires, And made him woo her with a victor's sword. Cast me from favour, seizes all my lands, And turns my naked fortunes to the cold. The king, made proud with purchase of his wish, Neglects my sufferance for him, and o'erlooks The low tide of my fortunes; lest my woes Should speak my wrongs to his ingratitude: The whilst those lords, whose supple hams have bow'd To do me formal reverence, now despise And slight me in their meanest compliments. O, 'tis a torment more than hell yet knows, To be an honest flatterer, or to live A saint in limbo, which that I may prevent, I'll be nor best nor worst, but all indifferent, But here comes a nobleman; I must turn petitioner. _Enter_ FLORIO. My lord, may I not see the king?