+Des.+ You are the patron of our honoured actions, And all their glory meets and circles in Your fame.
+Duke.+ I will disengage you from this forc'd compliment: It keeps me at too great a distance from that Bosom, where I would lodge a friend, Dessandro: I must take't unkindly too, that in the scroll Of all your friends I stand dash'd out, a stranger To your joys.
+Duke.+ But you shall not steal the day so: I'll be One at the ceremony, though the bride tell me In a blush, I came unwish'd-for.
+Des.+ 'Tis but the busy voice that, like the nightmare, Rides men, and can find strange shapes and prodigies I'th' clouds. I must confess, Cleara has the Engagement of all her virtues and a brother's on me. When it concerns me nearer, it must not be a secret To your highness, to whom all that's deriv'd To my poor life and fortune is a just debt.
+Duke.+ You know the way unto a friend--if you can think I have power enough to make me so.
+Des.+ Sir, I was only showed to the world to be talk'd on: Fortune (I thank her) has given me many knacks To play with in her mood, but taken 'em away again scurvily, To tell me I was not born to any real purpose; And I wish nothing she can give me.
+Duke.+ She will acknowledge her mistake, and put On her smiles to court your merits. La Gitterne, is the king come from's sport? [_+La Gitterne+ waits._
+Duke.+ Colonel, this day you shall bestow on me: I owe the Duchess Claudilla a visit; Make ready straight; we'll spend a dinner-time There, and the afternoon at tennis. [_Exeunt._
_That done, +Claudilla+ and +De Flame+ discovered sitting in a rich couch; at each end a lady waiting._
+De F.+ This does but find our melancholy out, And cast it in a minute's trance; when one Soft accent from Claudilla's voice leaves nought That's earth about me. My soul's in her Elysium, And every sense immortal, dilated into joys: Heaven becomes attentive, and the soft winds Put on their perfum'd wings to hover near those lips. That blush does show the sparkles of some incensed thought! My poor expressions rob ye; but I appeal To this white hand for pardon.
+Claud.+ Sir, my thoughts are all acknowledgments of that delight I hear and see you with, what dress soe'er you please To send your courtship in to try 'em; We have outliv'd those arts and common charms, And need not seek our hearts in scatter'd flames; As those, whose lesson yet is at the hand or eye; Our hearts have read Love's deep divinity And all his amorous volumes over; we must write Stories of our love, my lord.