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But if that I am I, then well I know

Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,

Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:

Far more, far more, to you do I decline.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

To drown me in thy [sister’s] flood of tears.

Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;

Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

And as a [bed] I’ll take [them], and there lie,

And in that glorious supposition think

He gains by death that hath such means to die:

Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

Luc.

What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

S. Ant.

Not mad, but mated—how, I do not know.

Luc.

It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

S. Ant.

For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

Luc.

Gaze when you should, and that will clear your sight.

S. Ant.

As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

Luc.

Why call you me love? Call my sister so.

S. Ant.

Thy sister’s sister.

Luc.

That’s my sister.

S. Ant.

No;

It is thyself, mine own self’s better part: