Jul monologue (Act 4) — The Poetaster

Ay me, that virtue, whose brave eagle's wings, With every stroke blow stairs in burning heaven, Should, like a swallow, preying towards storms, Fly close to earth, and with an eager plume, Pursue those objects which none else can see, But seem to all the world the empty air! Thus thou, poor Ovid, and all virtuous men, Must prey, like swallows, on invisible food, Pursuing flies, or nothing: and thus love. And every worldly fancy, is transposed By worldly tyranny to what plight it list. O father, since thou gav'st me not my mind, Strive not to rule it; take but what thou gav'st To thy disposure: thy affections Rule not in me; I must bear all my griefs, Let me use all my pleasures; virtuous love Was never scandal to a goddess' state.-- But he's inflexible! and, my dear love, Thy life may chance be shorten'd by the length Of my unwilling speeches to depart. Farewell, sweet life; though thou be yet exiled The officious court, enjoy me amply still: My soul, in this my breath, enters thine ears, And on this turret's floor Will I lie dead, Till we may meet again: In this proud height, I kneel beneath thee in my prostrate love, And kiss the happy sands that kiss thy feet. Great Jove submits a sceptre to a cell, And lovers, ere they part, will meet in hell.