Amort

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

How nowe fellowe Franticke, what all a mort? Doth this sadnes become thy madnes?

What, all amort, Signior, no Courage left?

The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs / Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort / Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; / 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, / Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, / Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, / And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

Here repose houris, dreamlike fair; Eyes half amort by amorous care; Marvels of flesh, wonders of hair!