[_To the_ Cardinal. _Car._ The sun setting, a man pointing at it: The motto, _Senso tamen ipse calorem_. Fair bride, some servant of yours, that here imitates To have felt the heat of love bred in your brightness, But setting thus from him by marriage; He only here acknowledgeth your power, And must[189] expect beams of a morrow-sun. _Lady Len._ Lord Bridegroom, will you interpret me? _Rob._ A sable shield: the word,[190] _Vidua spes_. 60 What--the forlorn hope, in black, despairing? Lady Lentulus, is this the badge of all your suitors? _Lady Len._ Ay, by my troth, my lord, if they come to me. _Rob._ I could give it another interpretation. Methinks this lover has learn'd of women to deal by contraries; if so, then here he says, the widow is his only hope. _Lady Len._ No; good my lord, let the first stand. _Rob._ Inquire of him, and he'll resolve the doubt. _Abi._ What's here?--a ship sailing nigh her haven? With good ware belike: 'tis well ballast. 70 _Tha._ O this your device smells of the merchant. What's your ship's name, I pray? _The Forlorn Hope_? _Abi._ No; _The Merchant Royal_. _Tha._ And why not _Adventurer_? _Abi._ You see no likelihood of that: would it not fain be in the haven? The word, _Ut tangerem portum._ Marry, for aught I know; God grant it. What's there? _Tha._ Mine's an azure shield: marry, what else? I should tell thee more than I understand; but the word is, _Aut pretio, aut precibus_. 80 _Abi._ Ay, ay, some common-council device. [_They take the women, and dance the first change._ _Men._ Fair widow, how like you this change? _Lady Len._ I chang'd too lately to like any. _Men._ O your husband! you wear his memory like a death's-head. For Heaven's love, think of me as of the man Whose dancing days you see are not yet done. _Lady Len._ Yet you sink a-pace,[191] sir. _Men._ The fault's in my upholsterer, lady. _Rog._ Thou shalt as soon find Truth telling a lie, 90 Virtue a bawd, Honesty a courtier, As me turn'd recreant to thy least design. Love makes me speak, and he makes love divine. _Abi._[192] Would Love could make you so! but 'tis his guise To let us surfeit ere he ope our eyes. _Tha._[193] You grasp my hand too hard, i'faith, fair sir. [CLARIDIANA _holds her by the hand_. _Clar._ Not as you grasp my heart, unwilling wanton. Were but my breast bare and anatomised, Thou shouldst behold there how thou torturest it; And as Apelles limn'd the Queen of Love, 100 In her right hand grasping a heart in flames, So may I thee, fairer, but crueller. _Tha._[193] Well, sir, your vizor gives you colour for what you say.