ROSADER
First let the heavens conspire to pull me downe, And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me. Let sorrowes streame about my hatefull bower, And restlesse horror hatch within my breast, Let beauties eye afflict me with a loure,3
Let deepe despaire pursue me without rest; Ere Rosalynde my loyaltie disprove,
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkinde.
ROSALYNDE
Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love, Then Rosalynde will have thee still in minde.
ROSADER
Then let me triumph more than Tithons deere, Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect:
Then let my face exile his sorrie cheere, And frolicke in the comfort of affect:
And say that Rosalynde is only pitifull, Since Rosalynde is only beautifull.
3 A lour is a frown, scowl, or angry look.