Page:The Works of Ben Jonson - Gifford - Volume 6.djvu/267

Old Maudlin tells me so, and Douce her daughter—
Have you swept the river, say you, and not found her?

Much. For fowl and fish, we have.

Æg. O, not for her! You are goodly friends! right charitable men!
Nay, keep your way and leave me; make your toys,
Your tales, your posies, that you talk'd of; all
Your entertainments: you not injure me.
Only if I may enjoy my cypress wreath,
And you will let me weep, 'tis all I ask,
Till I be turn'd to water, as was she!
And troth, what less suit can you grant a man?

Tuck. His phantasie is hurt, let us now leave him;
[Exit. The wound is yet too fresh to admit searching.

Æg. Searching! where should I search, or on what track?
Can my slow drop of tears, or this dark shade
About my brows, enough describe her loss!
Earine! O my Earine's loss!
No, no, no, no; this heart will break first.

George. How will this sad disaster strike the ears
Of bounteous Robin Hood, our gentle master!

Much. How will it mar his mirth, abate his feast;
[Exeunt George and Much. And strike a horror into every guest!

Æg. If I could knit whole clouds about my brows,
And weep like Swithin, or those watery signs,
The Kids, that rise then, and drown all the flocks
Of those rich shepherds, dwelling in this vale;