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A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary

Julia 
A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Lucetta 
Better forbear till Proteus make return.
Julia
O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food?
Pity the dearth that I have pinèd in
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Lucetta
I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire,
But qualify the fire’s extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Julia
The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know’st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage,
But when his fair course is not hinderèd,
He makes sweet music with th’ enameled stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport to the wild ocean.
Then let me go and hinder not my course.
I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream
And make a pastime of each weary step
Till the last step have brought me to my love,
And there I’ll rest as after much turmoil
A blessèd soul doth in Elysium.
 
Source:
Act 2
Scene 7
Line 9

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