Evad. Aspatia, take her part.

Dula. I will refuse it.
She will pluck down a side; she does not use it.

Evad. Why, do.

Dula. You will find the play
Quickly, because your head lies well that way.

Evad. I thank thee, Dula. ’Would thou could’st instil
Some of thy mirth into Aspatia!
Nothing but sad thoughts in her breast do dwell:
Methinks, a mean betwixt you would do well.

Dula. She is in love: Hang me, if I were so,
But I could run my country. I love, too,
To do those things that people in love do.

Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek:
It were a fitter hour for me to laugh,
When at the altar the religious priest
Were pacifying the offended powers
With sacrifice, than now. This should have been
My night; and all your hands have been employed
In giving me a spotless offering
To young Amintor’s bed, as we are now
For you. Pardon, Evadne; ’would my worth
Were great as yours, or that the king, or he,
Or both, thought so! Perhaps he found me worthless:
But, till he did so, in these ears of mine,
These credulous ears, he pour’d the sweetest words
That art or love could frame. If he were false,
Pardon it, Heaven! and if I did want
Virtue, you safely may forgive that too;
For I have lost none that I had from you.

Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam.

Asp. Would I could!
Then should I leave the cause.

Evad. See, if you have not spoil’d all Dula’s mirth.

Asp. Thou think’st thy heart hard; but if thou be’st caught,
Remember me; thou shalt perceive a fire
Shot suddenly into thee.

Dula. That’s not so good; let ’em shoot anything
But fire, I fear ’em not.

Asp. Well, wench, thou may’st be taken.

Evad. Ladies, good-night: I’ll do the rest myself.

Dula. Nay, let your lord do some. Asp. [Sings.] Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew.

Evad. That’s one of your sad songs, madam.

Asp. Believe me, ’tis a very pretty one.

Evad. How is it, madam?


Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse,
      Of the dismal yew;
   Maidens, willow branches bear;
      Say I died true:
   My love was false, but I was firm
      From my hour of birth.
   Upon my buried body lie
      Lightly, gentle earth!

Evad. Fie on’t, madam! The words are so strange, they are
able to make one dream of hobgoblins.“I could never
have the power:” Sing that, Dula.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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