Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/272

252 Fran. Must I, my lord, be busy?

I may be civil, though not kind. Tell him

I wait him in the gallery.

Iph. [whispers]. May I not kiss your hand this night?

Fran. The world is full of jealous eyes, my lord;

And, were they all lock'd up, you are a spy,

Once enter'd in my chamber at strange hours.

Iph. The virtue of Francelia is too safe

To need those little arts of preservation.

Thus to divide ourselves, is to distrust ourselves.

A cherubin despatches not on earth

Th' affairs of heaven with greater innocence

Than I will visit; 'tis but to take a leave—

I beg.

Fran. When you are going, my lord.

Alm. Pish! Thou liest, thou liest.

I know he plays with womankind, not loves it.

Thou art impertinent.

Mor. 'Tis the camp-talk, my lord, though.

Alm. The camp's an ass; let me hear no more on't.

Gra. And shall we have peace? I am

No sooner sober but the state is so too.

If't be thy will, a truce for a moneth only.

I long to refresh my eyes, by this hand;

They have been so tir'd with looking upon faces

Of this country.

Vil. And shall the Donazella

To whom we wish so well-a

Look babies again in our eyes-a?

Gra. Ah!

A sprightly girl above fifteen, that melts,

When a man but takes her by the hand; eyes full

And quick; with breath sweet as double violets,

And wholesome as dying leaves of strawberries;

Thick silken eyebrows, high upon the forehead;

And cheeks mingled with pale streaks of red,

Such as the blushing morning never wore.

Vil. Oh, my chops, my chops!