Jul monologue (Act 4) — The Poetaster

Here! and not here! O, how that word doth play With both our fortunes, differing, like ourselves, Both one; and yet divided, as opposed! I high, thou low: O, this our plight of place Doubly presents the two lets of our love, Local and ceremonial height, and lowness: Both ways, I am too high, and thou too low, Our minds are even yet; O, why should our bodies, That are their slaves, be so without their rule? I'll cast myself down to thee; if I die, I'll ever live with thee: no height of birth, Of place, of duty, or of cruel power, Shall keep me from thee; should my father lock This body up within a tomb of brass, Yet I'll be with thee. If the forms I hold Now in my soul, be made one substance with it; That soul immortal, and the same 'tis now; Death cannot raze the affects she now retaineth: And then, may she be any where she will. The souls of parents rule not children's souls, When death sets both in their dissolv'd estates; Then is no child nor father; then eternity Frees all from any temporal respect. I come, my Ovid; take me in thine arms, And let me breathe my soul into thy breast.