_Thier._ And you could, Dove-like to a single object, Bind your loose spirits to one, nay, such a one Whom only eyes and ears must flatter good, Your surer sence made useless, my self, nay As in my all of good, already known. _Ordel._ Let proof plead for me; let me be mew'd up Where never eye may reach me, but your own; And when I shall repent, but in my looks, if sigh. _Thier._ Or shed a tear that's warm. _Ordel._ But in your sadness. _Thier._ Or when you hear the birds call for their mates, Ask if it be _St. Valentine_, their coupling day. _Ordel._ If any thing may make a thought suspected Of knowing any happiness but you, Divorce me, by the Title of Most Falshood. _Thier._ Oh, who would know a wife, that might have such a friend? Posterity henceforth, lose the name of blessing And leave the earth inhabited to people heaven. _Enter_ Theodoret, Brunhalt, Martel, Protaldye. _Mart._ All happiness to _Thierry_ and _Ordella_. _Thier._ 'Tis a desire but borrowed from me, my happiness Shall be the period of all good mens wishes, Which friends, nay dying Fathers shall bequeath, And in my one give all: is there a duty Belongs to any power of mine, or love To any virtue I have right to? here, place it here, _Ordella's_ name shall only bear command, Rule, Title, Sovereignty. _Brun._ What passion sways my Son? _Thier._ Oh Mother, she has doubled every good The travel of your bloud made possible To my glad being. _Prot._ He should have done Little to her, he is so light hearted. _Thier._ Brother, friends, if honor unto shame If wealth to want inlarge the present sense, My joyes are unbounded, instead of question Let it be envy, not bring a present To the high offering of our mirth, Banquets, and Masques; Keep waking our delights, mocking nights malice, Whose dark brow would fright pleasure from us, Our Court be but one st[a]ge of Revels, and each [e]ye The Scene where our content moves. _Theod._ There shall want Nothing to express our shares in your delight, Sir. _Mart._ Till now I ne'er repented the estate Of Widower. _Thier._ Musick, why art thou so slow voic'd? it staies thy presence My _Ordella_, this chamber is a sphere Too narrow for thy all-moving virtue. Make way, free way I say; Who must alone, her Sexes want supply, Had need to have a room both large and high. _Mart._ This passion's above utterance. _Theod._ Nay, credulity. [_Exit all but_ Thierry, Brunhalt. _Brun._ Why Son what mean you, are you a man? _Thier._ No Mother I am no man, were I a man, How could I be thus happy? _Brun._ How can a wife be author of this joy then?