a Lady the last day.

_Mel_. How wast?

_Amint_. Why such an odd one.

_Mel_. I have long'd to speak with you, not of an idle jest
that's forc'd, but of matter you are bound to utter
to me.

_Amint_. What is that my friend?

_Mel_. I have observ'd, your words fall from your tongue
Wildly; and all your carriage,
Like one that strove to shew his merry mood,
When he were ill dispos'd: you were not wont
To put such scorn into your speech, or wear
Upon your face ridiculous jollity:
Some sadness sits here, which your cunning would
Cover o're with smiles, and 'twill not be. What is it?

_Amint_. A sadness here! what cause
Can fate provide for me, to make me so?
Am I not lov'd through all this Isle? the King
Rains greatness on me: have I not received
A Lady to my bed, that in her eye
Keeps mounting fire, and on her tender cheeks
Inevitable colour, in her heart
A prison for all vertue? are not you,
Which is above all joyes, my constant friend?