Diana.

I envy much the melancholy spirit Who wove that strain. The verses too were fetched Out of a deeper well than common passion Hath skill to draw from. Frederick, who is the poet That I must love for this?

F. Love for my art Hath made your ladyship too generous Towards a most humble workman. ’Tis my own.

D. Ah me! what must it be to be a poet, And in the abandoned humour that men take with, To give forth! O ’tis godlike! but the music,— ’Tis that you excel in: it hath a melancholy Which springs of love.

F. The whole world sprang of love; And art is but the praise the creature makes To the Creator.

D. True: and the best praise Is but love’s echo. I mean you love some lady. She is very happy. Would I knew her name.

F. When I shall love a lady, and have means To court her, you shall hear gay music.

D. Means! Is she so mercenary?

F. Your ladyship Must take this lady of your own creation With all her faults. Love is a luxury You may suspect in me when I have money To spend in presents.

D. Whom you love I know not: But whether it be a queen or peasant girl, ’Tis all one. Love exalteth above rank Or wealth; yet in Love’s ritual ’twere well wished To express your homage fully. Ho, Sir Gregory! Sir Gregory!