_Qua._ Love! Hang love. It is the abject outcast of the world. 60 Hate all things; hate the world, thyself, all men; Hate knowledge; strive not to be over-wise: It drew destruction into Paradise. Hate honor, virtue; they are baits That 'tice men's hopes to sadder fates. Hate beauty: every ballad-monger Can cry his idle foppish humour. Hate riches: wealth's a flattering Jack; Adores to face, mews 'hind thy back. He that is poor is firmly sped; 70 He never shall be flatterèd. All things are error, dirt and nothing, Or pant with want, or gorged to loathing. Love only hate, affect no higher Than praise of Heaven, wine, a fire. Suck up thy days in silent breath, When their snuff's out, come Signior Death. Now, sir, adieu, run mad and wilt;[407] The worst is this, my rhyme's but spilt. _Jaco._ Thy rhymes are spilt! who would not run rank mad, 80 To see a wandering Frenchman rival, nay, Outstrip my suit? He kiss'd my Celia's cheek. _Qua._ Why, man, I saw my dog even kiss thy Celia's lips. _Jaco._ To-morrow morn they go to wed. _Qua._ Well then I know Whither to-morrow night they go. _Jaco._ Say quick. _Qua._ To bed. _Jaco._ I will invoke the Triple Hecate, Make charms as potent as the breath of fate, 90 But I'll confound the match! _Qua._ Nay, then, good day; And you be conjuring once, I'll slink away. [_Exit_ QUADRATUS. _Jaco._ Boy, could not Orpheus make the stones to dance? _Phi._ Yes, sir. _Jaco._ By'r Lady, a sweet touch. Did he not bring Eurydice out of hell with his lute? _Phi._ So they say, sir. _Jaco._ And thou canst bring Celia's head out of the window with thy lute. Well, hazard thy breath. Look, sir, here's a ditty. 100 'Tis foully writ, slight wit, cross'd here and there, But where thou find'st a blot, there fall a tear. _The Song._ Fie! peace, peace, peace! it hath no passion in't. O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes, That every note may seem to trickle down Like sad distilling tears, and make--O God! That I were but a poet, now t' express my thoughts, Or a musician but to sing my thoughts, Or anything but what I am.--Sing't o'er once more, My grief's a boundless sea that hath no shore. 110 [_He sings, and is answered; from above a willow_[408] _garland is flung down, and the song ceaseth._