Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/118

98 Iol. Why, sir?

There are no altars yet addrest unto her,

Nor sacrifice. If I have made her less

Than what she is, it was my love to you;

For in my thoughts and here within I hold her

The noblest piece Nature e'er lent our eyes,

And of the which all women else are but

Weak counterfeits, made up by her journeymen.

But was this fit to tell you?

I know you value but too high all that;

And in a loss we should not make things more:

'Tis misery's happiness that we can make

It less by art, through a forgetfulness

Upon our ills. Yet who can do it here,

When every voice must needs, and every face,

By shewing what she was not, shew what she was?

Ther. I'll instantly unto him.

Iol. Stay, sir!

Though't be the utmost of my fortune's hope

To have an equal share of ill with you;

Yet I could wish we sold this trifle, life,

At a far dearer rate than we are like

To do, since 'tis a king's the merchant.

Ther. Ha!

King? Ay, it is indeed; and there's no art

Can cancel that high bond.

Iol. [To himself] He cools again.

[Aloud] True, sir; and yet, methinks, to know a reason;

For passive nature ne'er had glorious end;

And he that states' preventions ever learn'd,

Knows 'tis one motion to strike and to defend.

Serv. Some of the lords without, and from the king,

They say, wait you.

Ther. What subtle state-trick now?

But one turn here, and I am back, my lord.

Iol. This will not do: his resolution's like

A skilful horseman; and reason is the stirrup,

Which, though a sudden shock may make it loose,

Yet does it meet it handsomely again.

Stay! it must be some sudden fear of wrong