(To Rosaura.)
There! I think in downright railing
I can hold my own with you.

ROS.
Ah, my good Fife, whose merry loyal pipe,
Come weal, come woe, is never out of tune
What, you in the same plight too?

FIFE.
Ay; And madam--sir--hereby desire,
When you your own adventures sing
Another time in lofty rhyme,
You don't forget the trusty squire
Who went with you Don-quixoting.

ROS.
Well, my good fellow--to leave Pegasus
Who scarce can serve us than our horses worse--
They say no one should rob another of
The single satisfaction he has left
Of singing his own sorrows; one so great,
So says some great philosopher, that trouble
Were worth encount'ring only for the sake
Of weeping over--what perhaps you know
Some poet calls the 'luxury of woe.'

FIFE.
Had I the poet or philosopher
In the place of her that kick'd me off to ride,