Hip. Who waits within there? [Zabulon within. Make ready the green Chamber.

Zab. It shall be Madam.

Arn. I am afraid she will injoy me indeed.

Hip. What Musick do ye love?

Arn. A modest tongue.

Hip. We’l have enough of that:  fye, fye, how lumpish!  In a young Ladyes arms thus dull?

Arn. For Heaven sake Profess a little goodness.

Hip. Of what Country?

Arn. I am of Rome.

Hip. Nay then I know you mock me, The Italians are not frighted with such bug-bears, Prethee go in.

Arn. I am not well.

Hip. I’le make thee, I’le kiss thee well.

Arn. I am not sick of that sore.

Hip. Upon my Conscience, I must ravish thee, I shall be famous for the first example:  With this I’le tye ye first, then try your strength Sir.

Arn. My strength? away base woman, I abhor thee.  I am not caught with stales, disease dwell with thee. [Exit.

Hip. Are ye so quick? and have I lost my wishes?  Hoe, Zabulon; my servants.

Enter Zabulon and Servants.

Zab. Call’d ye Madam?

Hip. Is all that beauty scorned, so many su’d for; So many Princes? by a stranger too?  Must I endure this?

Zab. Where’s the Gentleman?

Hip. Go presently, pursue the stranger, Zabulon. 
He has broke from me, Jewels I have given him: 
Charge him with theft:  he has stoln my love, my freedome,
Draw him before the Governour, imprison him,
Why dost thou stay?

Zab. I’le teach him a new dance,
For playing fast and loose with such a Lady. 
Come fellows, come:  I’le execute your anger,
And to the full.

Hip. His scorn shall feel my vengeance.—­ [Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Sulpicia and Jaques.

Sul. Shall I never see a lusty man again?

Ja. Faith Mistress You do so over-labour ’em when you have ’em, And so dry-founder ’em, they cannot last.

Sul. Where’s the French-man?

Ja. Alas, he’s all to fitters, and lyes, taking the height of his fortune with a Syringe.  He’s chin’d, he’s chin’d good man, he is a mourner.

Sul. What’s become of the Dane?

Ja. Who? goldy-locks?  He’s foul i’th’ touch-hole; and recoils again, The main Spring’s weaken’d that holds up his cock, He lies at the sign of the Sun, to be new breech’d.

Sul. The Rutter too, is gone.

Ja. O that was a brave Rascal, He would labour like a Thrasher:  but alas What thing can ever last? he has been ill mew’d, And drawn too soon; I have seen him in the Hospital.