_Feli._ Hast thou presented her with sumptuous gifts? _Alb._ Alas, my fortunes are too weak to offer them. _Feli._ O, then I have it, I'll tell thee what to do. _Alb._ What, good Feliche? _Feli._ Go and hang thyself; I say, go hang thyself, If that thou canst not give, go hang thyself: I'll rhyme thee dead, or verse thee to the rope. How think'st thou of a poet that sung thus? _Munera sola pacant, sola addunt munera formam: Munere sollicites Pallada, Cypris erit._ 60 _Munera, munera!_ _Alb._ I'll go and breathe my woes unto the rocks, And spend my grief upon the deafest seas. I'll weep my passion to the senseless trees, And load most solitary air with plaints. For woods, trees, sea, or rocky Apennine, Is not so ruthless as my Rossaline. Farewell, dear friend, expect no more of me: Here ends my part in this love's comedy. 69 [_Exeunt_ ALBERTO _and_ Painter. _Feli._ Now, master Balurdo, whither are you going, ha? _Bal._ Signior Feliche, how do you, faith? and by my troth, how do you? _Feli._ Whither art thou going, bully?[163] _Bal._ And as heaven help me, how do you? How, do you, i'faith, hee? _Feli._ Whither art going, man? _Bal._ O God, to the court; I'll be willing to give you grace and good countenance, if I may but see you in the presence. _Feli._ O, to court? farewell. 80 _Bal._ If you see one in a yellow taffeta doublet, cut upon carnation velure,[164] a green hat, a blue pair of velvet hose, a gilt rapier, and an orange-tawny pair of worsted silk stockings, that's I, that's I. _Feli._ Very good: farewell. _Bal._ Ho, you shall know me as easily; I ha' bought me a new green feather with a red sprig; you shall see my wrought[165] shirt hang out at my breeches; you shall know me. 89 _Feli._ Very good, very good, farewell. _Bal._ Marry, in the mask 'twill be somewhat hard. But if you hear anybody speak so wittily, that he makes all the room laugh; that's I, that's I. Farewell, good Signior. _Enter_ FOROBOSCO, CASTILIO, _a Boy carrying a gilt harp_; PIERO, MELLIDA, _in night apparel_; ROSSALINE, FLAVIA, _two Pages_. _Pier._ Advance the music's prize; now, cap'ring wits, Rise to your highest mount; let choice delight Garland the brow of this triumphant night. 'Sfoot, 'a sits like Lucifer himself. _Ros._ Good sweet Duke, First let their voices strain for music's prize.[166] Give me the golden harp: 100 Faith, with your favour, I'll be umperess. _Pier._ Sweet niece, content: boys, clear your voice and sing. _First[167] Boy sings._