SINGER.
Swelling bosom, slender waist, throbbing now anew;
As she gives each fresh embrace, she is like to break in two!

PEHR. Oh!--

SINGER.
O happy man with perfume laden
Man of high estate!
Who may in some dreary hour
Hold her in his sweet embrace.

PEHR. That will do! Where's the author? Author!

POET LAUREATE. Your Highness, I have not learned to flatter.

PEHR. Haven't you? That's a poor poet laureate! Then play up your
strophe so we may hear if you lie.

POET LAUREATE. Your Highness--surely I can never question--

PEHR. Don't talk--just reel off!

POET LAUREATE.
The soul hath lost itself since love's flame it hath grasped,
Nor doth it awaken to reason, under the witchcraft of eyes.
But my love for hinds I leave--

PEHR. Pardon--what did you say?