_Meth._ O Venus! There's no laughing here save of your dreaming. Dost see how the courtiers scowl? They say the scholars and philosophers leave them no dancing room in the palace; the halls are full of sand for the pleasure of the students that come to draw those foolish figures--plates, they call em---- _Tich._ Geometry. _Bren._ That's your master's doing. Thank the wise man for that! _Meth._ It suits our mistresses well enough. They blink at a smile as an owlet at the sun. Troth, I've seen them weep so much that I feel wrapped in a fog with the vapor of their tears. _Tich._ But let us be merry. No more sad airs, my sweet Methone. _Bren._ [_Aside_] I like not this sugary possessive.... Play, my own sweetest Methone, and I'll sing you a song out of head. _Meth._ Pray you, sing it not out of feet too, for a limping line is past carrying. _Bren._ 'Tis a song of you and will go fast enough, I warrant. _Meth._ [_Scornfully_] Of me? _Bren._ Nay, of your jewels! _Meth._ An you mock me, I'll---- _Bren._ [_Touching his lips_] Your rubies [_pointing to his eyes_], your diamonds [_grinning to show teeth_], your pearls. _Tich._ You may sing that song when diamonds wink tears, rubies pucker for kisses, and pearls bite figs i' the morning. _Bren._ Well, I've a better one. [_Sings_] Her voice is like the birds that wive When blossoms swing in April trees, And from her bosom's honey hive Sighs come and go like bees. Her smile---- _Meth._ Nay, I'm no farm-house sweet for loutish Corydon! How would you sing me, master Tichus, were I in Athens where every maid is fair? _Tich._ With more truth and less boast. _Meth._ Your song, sir. [_Tichus sings_] Heigh-ho, my star of love Has left its heaven high, And all the beauteous court above, To dwell in fair Methone's eye. And now, alas, unlucky bliss, It finds a home so bright That all its beauty buried is Within that fairer, cruel light. No more, no more it shines for me But as she gives it leave! O, bid thy stars, sweet maid, agree---- _Bren._ Ho, if heaven had no stars save those left by lovers after fitting up their mistress' eyes, Erebus would stumble for want of candles! _Meth._ [_Jumping up_] Go! I hear my mistress! [_Tichus walks leisurely into garden, Brentio following_] _Meth._ Brentio, take the harp! [_Brentio returns and picks up harp_] _Bren._ So! I'm an excellent dromedary, if I can't flute it like Apollo. _Meth._ Run, snail! _Bren._ Not I, by Vulcan's limp! [_Theano appears at smaller entrance of palace_] _The._ Methone? [_Brentio runs into garden_]