Good-morrow, noble earl. What, you look pale! By every gentle oath that is not stale You are a votary of Cupid's throng, And have been keeping vigil all night long At some high window, or in some lone grove; For it is still the doom of those in love-- O cruelty, most condign and refined!-- To watch with Dian and her nymphs unkind, And, like chameleons, take the stars' wan hue, The while their purple hearts love's fire burns through. Last night you seemed unharmed of Venus' son. What! has your cheeks' red radiance trickling gone Out by a broach of last night's archery, When Cupid volleyed shafts from many an eye? Edmund. Late hours, good clown, late hours: I swear that's all. Clown. No; you are in love: I am sure of it. Now, take a little advice from me. Do not addle your brain by imagining that you love a particular lady. You are in love: that's all, and that's enough. O these romancists! It is womankind you love: and these wonderful ladies, if it were not for novels and poetry and tradition--and heredity perhaps--would never dream of bestowing their affections on an individual. The world's a mere expansion of Adam and Eve: I look upon it as one man and one woman--as manhood and womanhood: and I believe, if you sounded the thought of the world, you would find that is how it regards itself. Edmund. I know a lady who will never regard the world in that light. Clown. O, unsophisticated youth! Edmund. A maid whose bosom is a nunnery chaste Where spotless thoughts like votaresses dwell. Clown. There is not a maid, wife, or widow, whose fancy any man, if he set himself to it, could not conquer; nor any man whom any woman could not subdue if she chose. Edmund. One single fancy like an upright king Sways her most constant loyalty: my love Conceives not that there is in all the world Another man save me; and I, no maid. Clown. I would undertake to make your saintly lady love me, and forget you altogether. Edmund. O, rather would I have my lady hear The hiss of serpents and the howl of hell, Than have the rose-bud beauty of her ear Sullied by such a tale as you would tell! For though a pure portcullis' instant fall Would cut your foul breath from her cloistered brain, On the pink portal like a sooty pall, I fear its filthiness might long remain. If you dared ope your lips and let them hold Most distant parley with a noisome theme, Her eyes would lighten out their glance of gold, And strike you dumb for ever. O, you dream! Clown. You talk, you talk. Honestly I admire your youthful enthusiasm. But these clear-starched opinions, which young men collar themselves with in the first moon of manhood, will soon soil, and be washed and wrung to a rag. But truly, I am in love myself. Edmund. With whom? Clown. She wears the habit of an amazon, And flings her limbs as though they ne'er had moved In Chinese steps within a frock's confine;