Ben Jonson - The Devil Is an Ass Act 2 Scene 6 lyrics

Wittipol, Manly, Mistris Fitz-dottrel, Pug. This was a Fortune, happy above Thought, That this should prove thy Chamber; which I fear'd Would be my greatest trouble! this must be The very Window, and that the Room. Man. It is. I now remember, I have often seen there A Woman, but I never mark'd her much. Wit. Where was your soul, Friend? Man. Faith, but now and then, Awake unto those Objects. Wit. You pretend so. Let me not live, if I am not in love More with her wit, for this direction now, Then with her Form, though I ha' prais'd that prettily, Since I saw her and you to day. Read those. [He gives him a Paper, wherein is the Copy of a Song. They'll go unto the Air you love so well. Try 'em unto the Note, may be the Musick Will call her sooner; light, she's here! Sing quickly. Mrs. Fit. Either he understood him not: or else, The Fellow was not faithful in delivery Of what I bad. And, I am justly pay'd, That might have made my Profit of his Service, But by mistaking, have drawn on his Envy, And done the worse defeat upon my self. [Manly sings, Pug enters perceives it. How! Musick? then he may be there: and is sure. Pug. O! Is it so? Is there the Enter-view? Have I drawn to you, at last, my cunning Lady? The Devil is an Ass! fool'd off! and beaten! Nay, made an Instrument! and could not sent it! Well, since yo' have shewn the malice of a VVoman, No less then her true VVit and Learning, Mistris, I'll try, if little Pug have the malignity To recompence it, and so save his danger. 'Tis not the Pain, but the Discredit of it, The Devil should not keep a Body intire. Wit. Away, fall back, she comes. Man. I'll leave you, Sir, The Master of my Chamber. I have business. Wit. Mistris! Mrs. Fit. You make me Paint, Sir. Wit. The' are fair Colours Lady, and natural! I did receive Some Commands from you, lately, gentle Lady, [This Scene is acted at two Windows, as out of two contiguous Buildings. But so perplex'd, and wrap'd in the Delivery, As I may fear to have mis-interpreted: But must make suit still, to be neer your Grace. Mrs. Fit. Who is there with you, Sir? Wit. None but my self. It falls out, Lady, to be a dear Friends Lodging. Wherein there's some Conspiracy of Fortune With your poor Servants blest Affections. Mrs. Fit. Who was it sung? Wit. He, Lady, but he's gone, Upon my Entreaty of him, seeing you Approach the Window. Neither need you doubt him, If he were here. He is too much a Gentleman. Mrs. Fit. Sir, if you judge me by this simple Action, And by the outward Habit, and Complexion Of easiness, it hath, to your design; You may with Justice, say, I am a Woman: And a strange Woman. But when you shall please, To bring but that concurrence of my Fortune To Memory, which to day your self did urge: It may beget some favour like excuse, Though none like Reason. Wit. No, my tune-full Mistris? Then, surely, Love hath none; nor Beauty any; Nor Nature violenced in both these: With all whose gentle Tongues you speak, at once. I thought I had enough remov'd already That Scruple from your Breast, and left yo' all Reason; When through my Mornings Perspective I shew'd you A Man so above Excuse, as he is the Cause, Why any thing is to be done upon him; And nothing call'd an Injury mis-plac'd. I' rather, now had hope, to shew you how Love By his Accesses grows more Natural: And, what was done this Morning with such force, Was but devis'd to serve the present, then. That since Love hath the Honour to approach [He grows more familiar in his Courtship. These Sister-swelling Breasts; and touch this soft And rosie Hand; he hath the sk** to draw Their Nectar forth, with kissing; and could make More wanton 'salts, from this brave Promontory, Down to this Valley, then the nimble Roe; [Plays with her Paps, kisseth her hands, &c. Could play the hopping Sparrow 'bout these Nets; And sporting Squirel in these crisped Groves; Bury himself in every Silk-worms Kell, Is here unravell'd; run into the Snare, Which every Hair is, cast into a Curl, To catch a Cupid flying: Bathe himself In Milk and Roses here, and dry him there; Warm his cold Hands, to play with this smooth, round, And well torn'd Chin, as with the Billyard-ball; Rowl on these Lips, the Banks of Love, and there At once both plant and gather Kisses. Lady, Shall I, with what I have made to day here, call All Sense to Wonder, and all Faith to sign The Mysteries revealed in your Form? And will Love pardon me the Blasphemy I utter'd, when I said, a Gla** could speak This Beauty, or that Fools had Power to judge it? Do but look on her Eyes! They do light —— All that Love's World comprizeth! Do but look on her Hair! it is bright, As Love's Star, when it riseth! Do but mark, her Fore-head's smoother, Then words that sooth her! And from her arched Brows, such a Grace Sheds it self through the Face; As alone, there Triumphs to the Life, All the Gain, all the Good, of the Elements strife! Have you seen but a bright Lilly grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the Snow, Before the Soyl hath smuch'd it? Have you felt the Wooll o' the Bever? Or Swans Down, ever? Or, have smelt o' the Bud o' the Bryer? Or the Nard i' the Fire? Or, have tasted the Bag o' the Bee? O, so white! O, so soft! O, so sweet is she!