The things we do!

That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,
The root of vertuous magnamitie,
That doth affect with an unfained love,
That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,
Deserveth most to be affected deare,
Went some two houres after the little boy
Was sent away to keepe[39] at _Padua_.
_Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,
A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke[40] brat,
That durst attempt to contradict my will,
And prie into my close intendements.
_Enter Alenso sad_.
Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.--
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.--
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.
_Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye,
Your note of shame and comming miserie.


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