But, ladies, I have drawn you from my den
To open air, to mitigate some moan.
Conscience, sit down upon that sweating stone,
And let that flint, Love, serve thee for a seat;
And, Lady Lucre, on that stone rest you.
And, ladies, thus I leave you here alone.
Mourn ye, but moan not I shall absent be;
But good it were sometime to think on me.
[_Exit_.]
CONSCIENCE.
Comfort it is to think on sorrow past.
LOVE.
Sorrow remains, where joy is but a blast.
LUCRE.
A blast of wind is world's felicity.
CONSCIENCE.
A blasting wind, and full of misery.
LOVE.
O Conscience, thou hast more tormented me.
LUCRE.
Me hath thy worm, O Conscience, stung too deep.
CONSCIENCE.
But more myself my thoughts tormented have,
Than both of you, in Sorrow's sullen cave;
From whence drawn forth, I find but little rest:
A seat uneasy, wet, and scalding hot,
On this hard stone hath Sorrow me assign'd.
LOVE.
And on my seat myself I frozen find:
No flint more hard, no ice more cold than this.
LUCRE.
I think my seat some mineral stone to be;
I cold from it, it draw[eth] heat from me.
Ladies, consent, and we our seats will view.
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