HOR. What means my loue?

BEL. I know not what, my-selfe;
And yet my hart foretels me some some mischaunce.

HOR. Sweet, say not so; faire Fortune is our freend,
And heauens haue shut vp day to pleasure vs.
The starres, thou seest, holde back their twinckling shine
And Luna hides her-selfe to pleasure vs.

BEL. Thou hast preuailed! Ile conquer my misdoubt,
And in thy loue and councell drowne my feare.
I feare no more; loue now is all my thoughts!
Why sit we not? for pleasure asketh ease.

HOR. The more thou sitst within these leauy bowers,
The more will Flora decke it with her flowers.

BEL. I; but, if Flora spye Horatio heere,
Her iealous eye will think I sit too neere.

HOR. Harke, madame, how the birds record by night,
For ioy that Bel-imperia sits in sight!

BEL. No; Cupid counterfeits the nightingale,
To frame sweet musick to Horatios tale.

HOR. If Cupid sing, then Venus is not farre, --
I, thou art Venus, or some fairer starre!