Enter Clodio, and Guard.

Clod.  Now is this tye dispatch’d?

Char.  I think it be Sir.

Clod.  And my bed ready?

Char.  There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath’d preparation.

Clod.  Never grumble,
Nor fling a discontent upon my pleasure,
It must and shall be done:  give me some wine,
And fill it till it leap upon my lips:  [wine
Here’s to the foolish maidenhead you wot of,
The toy I must take pains for.

Char.  I beseech your Lordship Load not a Fathers love.

Clod.  Pledge it Charino,
Or by my life I’le make thee pledge thy last,
And be sure she be a maid, a perfect Virgin,
(I will not have my expectation dull’d)
Or your old pate goes off.  I am hot and fiery,
And my bloud beats alarms through my body,
And fancie high.  You of my guard retire,
And let me hear no noise about the lodging
But musick and sweet ayres, now fetch your Daughter,
And bid the coy wench put on all her beauties,
All her enticements, out-blush damask Roses,
And dim the breaking East with her bright Crystals. 
I am all on fire, away.

Char.  And I am frozen. [Exit.

Enter Zenocia with Bow and Quiver, an Arrow bent, Arnoldo and Rutilio after her, arm’d.

Zen.  Come fearless on.

Rut.  Nay an I budge from thee Beat me with durty sticks.

Clod.  What Masque is this? 
What pretty fancy to provoke me high? 
The beauteous Huntress, fairer far, and sweeter;
Diana shewes an Ethiop to this beauty
Protected by two Virgin Knights.

Rut.  That’s a lye, A loud one, if you knew as much as I do, The Guard’s dispers’d.

Arn.  Fortune I hope invites us.

Clod.  I can no longer hold, she pulls my heart from me.

Zen.  Stand, and stand fixt, move not a foot, nor speak not,
For if thou doest, upon this point thy death sits. 
Thou miserable, base, and sordid lecher,
Thou scum of noble blood, repent and speedily,
Repent thy thousand thefts, from helpless Virgins,
Their innocence betrayed to thy embraces.

Arn.  The base dishonour, that thou doest to strangers,
In glorying to abuse the Laws of Marriage,
Thy Infamy thou hast flung upon thy Country,
In nourishing this black and barbarous Custom.

Clod.  My Guard.

Arn.  One word more, and thou diest.

Rut.  One syllable
That tends to any thing, but I beseech you,
And as y’are Gentlemen tender my case,
And I’le thrust my Javeling down thy throat. 
Thou Dog-whelp, thou, pox upon thee, what
Should I call thee, Pompion,
Thou kiss my Lady? thou scour her Chamber-pot: 
Thou have a Maiden-head? a mottly Coat,
You great blind fool, farewel and be hang’d to ye,
Lose no time Lady.