Tho.  Ladies, I must desire your pardon for my friend:  I have some busines will a while deprive him Your sweet companies.

Clar.  Take him away; we are weary of him.

Bel.  Sister, lets leave the gentlemen alone,
And to our chambers.
                          [Exeunt Bel. and Clar.

Bon. Grimes, put to the doore and leave us.—­
Whats the matter?
                                   [Exit Grimes.

Tho.  Freind,
Ere I begin my story I would wish you
Collect yourselfe, awake your sleeping Spiritts,
Invoake your patience, all thats man about you
To ayd your resolution; for I feare
The newes I bring will like a palsie shake
Your soules indifferenst temper.

Bon.  Prethee, what is’t which on the soddaine can Be thus disastrous? ’tis beyond my thoughts.

Tho.  Nay, slight it not:  the dismall ravens noate
Or mandrakes screches, to a long-sick man
Is not so ominous as the heareing of it
Will be to you; ’twill like a frost congeale
Your lively heate,—­yet it must out, our frendship
Forbids concealment.

Bon.  Do not torture me; Ime resolute to heare it.

Tho.  Your soe admired Mistress Who parted from you now, Belisea,—­

Bon.  You have don well before
Your sad relation to repeat that sound;
That holy name whose fervor does excite
A fire within mee sacred as the flame
The vestalls offer:  see how it ascends
As if it meant to combat with the sunn
For heats priority!  Ime arm’d gainst death,
Could thy words blow it on me.

Tho.  Here me, then:  Your Mistress—­

Bon.  The Epitome of virtues, Who like the pretious reliques of a Saint Ought only to be seene, not touchd.

Tho.  Yet heare me;
Cease your immoderate prayses:  I must tell you
You doe adore an Idoll; her black Soule
Is tainted as an Apple which the Sunn
Has kist to putrifaction; she is
(Her proper appelation sounds so foule
I quake to speake it) a corrupted peice,
A most lascivious prostitute.

Bon.  Howes this? 
Speake it agen, that if the sacrilege
Thou’st made gainst vertue be but yet sufficient
To yeild thee dead, the iteration of it
May damne thee past the reach of mearcye.  Speake it,
While thou hast utterance left; but I conceit
A lie soe monstrous cannot chuse but choake
The vocall powers, or like a canker rott
Thy tung in the delivery.

Tho.  Sir, your rage
Cannot inforce a recantacion from me: 
I doe pronounce her light as is a leafe
In withered Autumne shaken from the trees
By the rude winds:  noe specld serpent weares
More spotts than her pide honor.

Bon.  So, no more: 
Thy former words incenst me but to rage;
These to a fury which noe sea of teares,
Though shed by queenes or Orphants, shall extinguish;
Nay, should my mother rise from her cold urne
And weepe herself to death againe to save
Thee from perdition, ’t should not; were there placd
Twixt thee and mee a host of blasing starrs,
Thus I would through them to thee! [Draw.