I'm un-ore-clowded, too! free from the mist!
The blind and late Heaven's-eyes great Occulist,
Obscured with the false fires of his sceme,
Not half those souls are lightned by this theme.
Why shouldst thou sweare I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already Morn,
W. Charon! thou slave! thou fooll! thou cavaleer!
CHA. A slave! a fool! what traitor's voice I hear?
Cord. Distressed pilgrim, whose dark clouded eyes
Speak thee a martyr to love's cruelties,
Amor. What pitying voice I hear,
If Pliny, Lord High Treasurer of al
Natures exchequer shuffled in this our ball,
Peinture her richer rival did admire,
And cry'd she wrought with more almighty fire,
Introth, I do my self perswade,
That the wilde boy is grown a man,
And all his childishnesse off laid,
Tell me, ye subtill judges in loves treasury,
Inform me, which hath most inricht mine eye,
This diamonds greatnes, or its clarity?
Amarantha sweet and faire,
Ah brade no more that shining haire!
As my curious hand or eye,