From Love our Fetters never sprung; That smiling God, all wanton, gay and young, Shows by his Wings he cannot be Confined to a restless Slavery; But here and there at random roves, Not fix’d to glittering Courts, or shady Groves.

  III.

Then she that Constancy profess’d Was but a well Dissembler at the best; And that imaginary Sway She feign’d to give, in seeming to obey, Was but the height of prudent Art, To deal with greater liberty her Heart.

      [After the Song Elaria gives her Lute to Mopsophil.

Ela.  This does not divert me; Nor nothing will, till Scaramouch return, And bring me News of Cinthio.

Mop.  Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more strictly guarded than usual.

Ela.  Cinthio came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing, sallied out with his Mirmidons upon him; and clashing of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether Cinthio were discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by Scaramouch will occasion me soon Intelligence.

Mop.  And see, Madam, where your trusty Roger comes.

    Enter Scaramouch, peeping on all sides before he enters.

You may advance, and fear none but your Friends.

Scar.  Away, and keep the door.

Ela.  Oh, dear Scaramouch! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy’s?

Scar.  Yes, yes. [In heat.

Ela.  And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don Cinthio?

Scar.  Yes, yes, what should I deliver else?

Ela.  Well—­and how does he?

Scar.  Lord, how should he do?  Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [Fanning himself with his Cap.

Ela.  Why, well he shou’d do.

Scar.  So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be,—­he has got but one Wound, Madam.

Ela.  How! wounded say you?  Oh Heavens! ’tis not mortal.

Scar.  Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous.

Ela.  I die with Fear, where is he wounded?

Scar.  Why, Madam, he is run—­quite through the Heart,—­but the Man may live, if I please.

Ela.  Thou please! torment me not with Riddles.

Scar.  Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call’d a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.

Ela.  Is Cinthio then not wounded?

Scar.  No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown.