_Ver._ Not for that: Or if he did, for that my youth must love him. Oh pardon me, if I say liberty Is bondage, if compar'd with his kind service; And but to have power now to speak his worth To its desert; I should be well content To be an old man when his praise were ended: And yet, if at this instant you were pleased, I should begin, the livery of age Would take his lodging upon this head Ere I should bring it to a period. In brief he is a man (for [God] forbid That I should ever live to say he was Of such a shape as would make one beloved, That never had good thought;) and to his body He hath a mind of such a constant temper In which virtues throng to have a room: Yet 'gainst this noble Gentleman, this _Montague_, For in that name I comprehend all goodness, Wrong, and the wrested law, false witnesses, And envy sent from hell, have rose in Armes, And though not pierc'd, batter'd his honor'd shield. What shall I say? I hope you will forgive me, That if you were but pleas'd to love, I know no _Juno_ worthy such a _Jove_. _Enter Charlot with a letter._ _Lam._ 'Tis well yet that I have the second place In your affection: From whence? _Charl._ From the Lord _Amiens_, Madam. _Lam._ 'Tis wellcome, though it bear his usual language: I thought so much, his love-suit speaks his health. What's he that brought it? _Charl._ A Gentleman of good rank, it seems. _Lam._ Where is he? _Charl._ Receiving entertainment in your house Sorting with his degree. _Lam._ 'Tis well. _Charl._ He waits your Ladyships pleasure. _Lam._ He shall not wait long: I'll leave you for a while; nay stay you boy, Attend the Lady. [_Exeunt Lam. Charl._ _Vir._ Would I might live once To wait on my poor Master. _L. Orl._ That's a good boy: This thankfulness looks lovely on thy forehead, And in it, as a book, me thinks I read Instructions for my self, that am his debtor, And wou'd do much that I might be so happy To repair that which to our grief is ruin'd. _Vir._ It were a work a King might glory in, If he saw with my eyes: If you please Madam, For sure to me you seem unapt to walk, To sit, although the churlish Birds deny To give us musick in this grove, where they Are prodigall to others: I'll strain my voyce For a sad Song, the place is safe and private. _L. Orl._ 'Twas my desire; begin good _Viramour_. _Musick, a Song, at the end of it enter Montague,_ _fainting, his Sword drawn._ _L. Orl._ What's he _Viramour_? _Vir._ A goodly personage.