Almost these twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres
Hast bin my bed-fellow; long time before
This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed,
Or _Atome_ cald my Lordshippe shind in me,
And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little bould
To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age
And truth of our indissolable love,
As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle, and too tender spirit.

_Cla_. My _Lord_, my want of Courtship makes me feare
I should be rude, and this my meane estate
Meetes with such envie, and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes
Of my poore worth, that should I be advaunce'd
Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire,
I should be torne in peeces with the Spirits
That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world,
Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders
If she but looke out of the ground of glorie.
Twixt whom and me, and every worldly fortune
There fights such sowre, and curst _Antipathy_,
So waspish and so petulant a Starre,
That all things tending to my grace or good
Are ravisht from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wildernes,
And must not thinke of any place with men.

_Mom_. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours
Must sifted be, or rather rooted out.