Nicholas.

Early is late to them that find their sunrise In seeing thee, my lady.

D. Better speak, sir, Your poetry to Laura.

N. She is my rose, The rose of my sun’s garden-ground, and I The nightingale forlorn that steal to woo her.

D. That’s very well. But I now, by my name, Should be your moon.

N. I have a verse to fit. [Reciting. The flowers of dawn are uplifted to hear The birds’enamoured tune, Which tell their love in the pale ear Of the far-flying moon.

D. That’s very beautiful. Now, tell your love: I fly. [Goes to Sir Gregory. Sir Gregory, sit you to the table: These are the articles. [They sit, D. shews papers.