Less plague,
The plague-spot; that doth speedy make an end
One way or t'other, girl. Yet, never love
Was warm without a spice of jealousy.
Thy lesson now--Sir William Fondlove's rich,
And riches, though they're paste, yet being many,
The jewel love we often cast away for.
I use him but for Master Waller's sake.
Dost like my policy?
Lydia. You will not chide me?
W. Green. Nay, Lydia, I do like to hear thy thoughts,
They are such novel things--plants that do thrive
With country air! I marvel still they flower,
And thou so long in town! Speak freely, girl!
Lydia. I cannot think love thrives by artifice,
Or can disguise its mood, and show its face.
I would not hide one portion of my heart
Where I did give it and did feel 'twas right,
Nor feign a wish, to mask a wish that was,
Howe'er to keep it. For no cause except
Myself would I be loved. What were't to me,
My lover valued me the more, the more
He saw me comely in another's eyes,
When his alone the vision I would show
Becoming to? I have sought the reason oft,
They paint Love as a child, and still have thought,
It was because true love, like infancy,
Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood,
Doth show its wish at once, and means no more!
W. Green.
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