_Mel._ You ne'er took seizin on them yet: forbear. There's not a vacant corner of my heart, But all is fill'd with dead Antonio's loss. Then urge no more; O leave to love at all; 'Tis less disgraceful not to mount than fall. _Mat._ Bright and refulgent lady, deign your ear: 190 You see this blade,--had it a courtly lip, It would divulge my valour, plead my love, Justle that skipping feeble amorist Out of your love's seat; I am Matzagent. _Gal._ Hark thee; I pray thee, taint not thy sweet ear With that sot's gabble; by thy beauteous cheek, He is the flagging'st bulrush that e'er droop'd With each slight mist of rain. But with pleased eye Smile on my courtship. _Mel._ What said you, sir? alas my thought was fix'd 200 Upon another object. Good, forbear: I shall but weep. Ay me, what boots a tear! Come, come, let's dance. O music, thou distill'st More sweetness in us than this jarring world: Both time and measure from thy strains do breathe, Whilst from the channel of this dirt doth flow Nothing but timeless grief, unmeasured woe. _Ant._ O how impatience cramps my crackèd veins And cruddles thick my blood, with boiling rage! O eyes, why leap you not like thunderbolts, 210 Or cannon bullets in my rival's face! _Ohime infeliche misero, O lamentevol fato!_ _Alb._ What means the lady fall upon the ground? _Ros._ Belike the falling sickness. _Ant._ I cannot brook this sight, my thoughts grow wild: Here lies a wretch, on whom heaven never smiled. _Ros._ What, servant, ne'er a word, and I here man? I would shoot some speech forth, to strike the time With pleasing touch of amorous compliment. Say, sweet, what keeps thy mind, what think'st thou on? 220 _Alb._ Nothing. _Ros._ What's that nothing? _Alb._ A woman's constancy. _Ros._ Good, why, would'st thou have us sluts, and never shift The vesture of our thoughts? Away for shame. _Alb._ O no, th'art too constant to afflict my heart, Too too firm fixèd in unmovèd scorn. _Ros._ Pish, pish; I fixed in unmovèd scorn! Why, I'll love thee to-night. _Alb._ But whom to-morrow? _Ros._ Faith, as the toy puts me in the head. _Bal._ And pleased the marble heavens, now would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, kindly to conceit my--my--my--pray you, give in an epithet for love. _Feli._ Roaring, roaring. 232 _Bal._[96] O love, thou hast murder'd me, made me a shadow, and you hear not Balurdo, but Balurdo's ghost. _Ros._ Can a ghost speak? _Bal._ Scurvily, as I do. _Ros._ And walk? _Bal._ After their fashion. _Ros._ And eat apples? _Bal._ In a sort, in their garb. 240 _Feli._ Prithee, Flavia, be my mistress. _Fla._ Your reason, good Feliche?