_Vio._ A little, by your favour. 25 _Duke._ What kind of woman is't? _Vio._ Of your complexion. _Duke._ She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith? _Vio._ About your years, my lord. _Duke._ Too old, by heaven: let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, 30 So sways she level in her husband's heart: For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are. _Vio._ I think it well, my lord. 35 _Duke._ Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. _Vio._ And so they are: alas, that they are so; 40 To die, even when they to perfection grow! _Re-enter_ CURIO _and_ Clown. _Duke._ O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones 45 Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. _Clo._ Are you ready, sir? _Duke._ Ay; prithee, sing. [_Music._ 50 SONG. _Clo._ Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 55 O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; 60 Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, 65 To weep there! _Duke._ There's for thy pains. _Clo._ No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. _Duke._ I'll pay thy pleasure then. _Clo._ Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or 70 another. _Duke._ Give me now leave to leave thee. _Clo._ Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put 75 to sea, that their business might be every thing and their intent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [_Exit._