Vict.  I, my Lord, guided by you and by your precepts, Have often cal’d on Iupiter.

Belliz.  I, there’s the poynt: 
My sinnes like Pullies still drew me downewards: 
’Twas I that taught thee first to Idolize,
And unlesse that I can with-draw thy mind
From following that I did with tears intreat,
I’me lost, for ever lost, lost in my selfe and thee. 
Oh, my Bellina!

Bellina.  Why, Sir!  Shall we not call on Iove that gives us food, By whom we see the heavens have all their Motions?

Belliz.  Shee’s almost lost too:  alas! my Girle,
There is a higher Iove that rules ’bove him. 
Sit, my Victoria, sit, my faire Bellina,
And with attention hearken to my dreame: 
Methought one evening, sitting on a fragrant Virge,
Close by there ranne a silver gliding streame: 
I past the Rivolet and came to a Garden,
A Paradise, I should say (for lesse it could not be);
Such sweetnesse the world contains not as I saw;
Indian Aramaticks nor Arabian Gummes
Were nothing sented unto this sweet bower. 
I gaz’d about, and there me thought I saw
Conquerors and Captives, Kings and meane men;
I saw no inequality in their places. 
Casting mine eye on the other side the Palace,
Thousands I saw my selfe had sent to death;
At which I sigh’d and sob’d, I griev’d and groan’d. 
Ingirt with Angels were those glorious Martyrs
Whom this ungentle hand untimely ended,
And beckon’d to me as if heaven had said,
“Beleeve as they and be thou one of them”;
At which my heart leapt, for there me thought I saw,
As I suppos’d, you two like to the rest: 
With that I wak’d and resolutely vow’d
To prosecute what I in thought had seene.

Bellina.  ’Twas a sweet dreame; good Sir, make use of it.

Vict.  And I with Bellizarius am resolv’d To undergoe the worst of all afflictions, Where such a glory bids us to performe.

Belliz.  Now blessings crowne yee both
The first stout Martyr has[149] his glorious end
Though stony-hard yet speedy; when ours comes
I shall tryumph in our affliction. 
This adds some comfort to my troubled soule: 
I, that so many have depriv’d of breath,
Shall winne two soules to accompany me in death.

[Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

Enter Clowne and Huntsmen severally.

1 Hunt.  Ho, rise, sluggards! so, so, ho! so, ho!

2 Hunt.  So ho, ho! we come.

Clown.  Morrow, iolly wood-men.

Omnes.  Morrow, morrow.

Clown.  Oh here’s a Morning like a grey ey’d Wench, able to intice a man to leap out of his bed if he love hunting, had he as many cornes on his toes as there are Cuckolds in the City.

1 Hunt.  And that’s enough in conscience to keepe men from going, were his Boots as wide as the black Iacks[150] or Bombards tost by the Kings Guard.