with thy Quill
By this right arm drawn from thy wonted wing,
Write to thy laughing Mother i'thy bloud,
That you are powers bely'd, and all your darts
Are to be blown away, by men resolv'd,
Like dust; I know thou fear'st my words, away.

_Tigr_.

O misery! why should he be so slow?
There can no falshood come of loving her;
Though I have given my faith; she is a thing
Both to be lov'd and serv'd beyond my faith:
I would he would present me to her quickly.

_Pan_.

Will you not speak at all? are you so far
From kind words? yet to save my modesty,
That must talk till you answer, do not stand
As you were dumb, say something, though it be
Poyson'd with anger, that it may strike me dead.

_Mar_.

Have you no life at all? for man-hood sake
Let her not kneel, and talk neglected thus;
A tree would find a tongue to answer her,
Did she but give it such a lov'd respect.

_Arb_.

You mean this Lady: lift her from the earth; why do you let her
kneel so long? Alas, Madam, your beauty uses to command, and not
to beg. What is your sute to me? it shall be granted, yet the
time is short, and my affairs are great: but where's my Sister? I
bade she should be brought.

_Mar_.

What, is he mad?

_Arb.

Gobrias,_ where is she?

_Gob_.

Sir.

_Arb_.

Where is she man?

_Gob._

Who, Sir?

_Arb_.

Who, hast thou forgot my Sister?

_Gob_.

Your Sister, Sir?

_Arb_.

Your Sister, Sir? some one that hath a wit, answer, where is she?

_Gob_.

Do you not see her there?

_Arb_.

Where?

_Gob_.

There.

_Arb_.

There, where?

_Mar_.

S'light, there, are you blind?

_Arb_.

Which do you mean, that little one?

_Gob_.

No Sir.

_Arb_.

No Sir? why, do you mock me? I can see
No other here, but that petitioning Lady.

_Gob_.

That's she.

_Arb_.

Away.

_Gob_.

Sir, it is she.

_Arb_.

'Tis false.

_Gob_.

Is it?

_Arb_.

As hell, by Heaven, as false as hell,
My Sister: is she dead? if it be so,
Speak boldly to me; for I am a man,
And dare not quarrel with Divinity;
And do not think to cozen me with this:
I see you all are mute and stand amaz'd,
Fearful to answer me; it is too true,
A decreed instant cuts off ev'ry life,
For which to mourn, is to repine; she dy'd
A Virgin, though more innocent than sheep,
As clear as her own eyes, and blessedness