_Isab._ Are you in earnest?
_Lor._ Yes, that I am, and that _Clarina_ shall find, If I once come to her.
_Isab._ Come, leave your frippery Jests, and come in.
_Lor._ _Guilliam_, be sure you attend me here, And whoever you see, say nothing; the best on't is, Thou art not much known.
[_Isab._ and _Lor._ go in.
_Guil._ Well, I see there is nothing but foutering In this Town; wou'd our _Lucia_ were here too for me, For all the Maids I meet with are so giglish And scornful, that a Man, as I am, Gets nothing but flouts and flings from them. Oh, for the little kind Lass that lives Under the Hill, of whom the Song was made; Which because I have nothing else to do, I will sing over now; hum, hum.
The Song for _Guilliam_. [To some Tune like him.
_In a Cottage by the Mountain Lives a very pretty Maid, Who lay sleeping by a Fountain, Underneath a Myrtle shade; Her Petticoat of wanton Sarcenet, The amorous Wind about did move, And quite unveil'd, And quite unveil'd the Throne of Love, And quite unveil'd the Throne of Love._
'Tis something cold, I'll go take a Niperkin of Wine, [Goes out.
Enter _Isab._ and _Lor._ above, as frighted into the Balcony.
_Lor._ This was some trick of thine, I will be hang'd else.
_Isab._ Oh, I'll be sworn you wrong me; Alas, I'm undone by't. [_Ant._ at the Door knocks.
_Ant._ Open the Door, thou naughty Woman.
_Lor._ Oh, oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?
_Ant._ Open the Door, I say.
_Lor._ Oh, 'tis a damnable leap out at this Balcony.
_Isab._ And yet you are a dead Man, if you see him.
_Ant._ Impudence, will you open the Door?
_Isab._ I will, Sir, immediately.
_Lor._ Devise some way to let me down, Or I will throw thee out; no Ladder of Ropes, no Device?
--If a Man would not forswear Whoring for the future That is in my condition, I am no true Gentleman.
_Ant._ Open, or I will break the Door.
_Isab._ Hold the Door, and swear lustily that you Are my Husband, and I will in the mean time Provide for your safety, Though I can think of none but the Sheets from the Bed.
[He holds the Door.
_Lor._ Any thing to save my Life; --Sir, you may believe me upon my Honour, I am lawful Husband to _Isabella_, And have no designs upon your House or Honour.
[_Isab._ this while fastens the Sheets, which are to be suppos'd from the Bed, to the Balcony.
_Ant._ Thou art some Villain.
_Lor._ No, Sir, I am an honest Man, and married lawfully.
_Ant._ Who art thou?
_Lor._ Hast thou done?
_Isab._ Yes, but you must venture hard.
_Isab._ 'Tis _Lorenzo_, Sir.
_Lor._ A Pox on her, now am I asham'd to all eternity.
_Isab._ Sir, let me beg you'l take his Word and Oath to night, And to morrow I will satisfy you. [_Lor._ gets down by the Sheets.
_Ant._ Look you make this good, Or you shall both dearly pay for't.
_Lor._ I am alive, yes, yes, all's whole and sound, Which is a mercy, I can tell you; This is whoring now: may I turn _Franciscan_, If I could not find in my heart to do penance In Camphire Posset, this Month, for this.
--Well, I must to this Merchant of Love, And I would gladly be there before the Prince: For since I have mist here, I shall be amorous enough, And then I'll provide for _Frederick_; For 'tis but just, although he be my Master, That I in these Ragousts should be his Taster.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. Antonio's House.
Enter _Ismena_ with a Veil.
_Ism._ _Alberto_ is not come yet, sure he loves me; But 'tis not Tears, and Knees, that can confirm me; No, I must be convinc'd by better Argument.
--Deceit, if ever thou a Guide wert made To amorous Hearts, assist a Love-sick Maid.
Enter _Alberto_.
_Alb._ Your pleasure, Madam?
--Oh that she would be brief, And send me quickly from her, For her Eyes will overthrow my purpose. [Aside.
_Ism._ _Alberto_, do you love me?
_Alb._ No.
_Ism._ No! have you deceiv'd me then?
_Alb._ Neither, _Clarina_; when I told you so, By Heaven, 'twas perfect Truth.
_Ism._ And what have I done since should Merit your Dis-esteem?
_Alb._ Nothing but what has rais'd it.
_Ism._ To raise your Esteem, then it seems, is To lessen your Love; or, as most Gallants are, You're but pleas'd with what you have not; And love a Mistress with great Passion, till you find Your self belov'd again, and then you hate her.
_Alb._ You wrong my Soul extremely, 'Tis not of that ungrateful nature; To love me is to me a greater Charm Than that of Wit or Beauty.