2 Gent.  With sighs as though his heart would break:  Cry like a breech’d boy, not eat a bit.

Leo.  I must go see him presently, For this is such a gig, for certain, Gentlemen, The Fiend rides on a Fiddle-stick.

2 Gent.  I think so.

Leo.  Can ye guide me to him for half an hour?  I am his To see the miracle.

1 Gent.  We sure shall start him. [Exeunt.

SCENA V.

Enter Antigonus and Leucippe.

Ant.  Are you sure she drank it?

Leu.  Now must I lye most confidently.  Yes Sir, she has drunk it off.

Ant.  How works it with her?

Leu.  I see no alteration yet.

Ant.  There will be, For he is the greatest Artist living made it.  Where is she now?

Leu.  She is ready to walk out, Sir.

Ant.  Stark mad, I know she will be.

Leu.  So I hope, Sir.

Ant.  She knows not of the Prince?

Leu.  Of no man living—­

Ant.  How do I look? how do my cloaths become me?  I am not very grey.

Leu.  A very youth, Sir,
Upon my maiden-head as smug as April: 
Heaven bless that sweet face, ’twill undo a thousand;
Many a soft heart must sob yet, e’r that wither,
Your Grace can give content enough.

Enter Celia with a Book.

Ant.  I think so.

Leu.  Here she comes, Sir.

Ant.  How shall I keep her off me?  Go, & perfume the room:  make all things ready. [Ex.  Leu.

Cel.  No hope yet of the Prince! no comfort of him! 
They keep me mew’d up here, as they mew mad folks,
No company but my afflictions. 
This royal Devil again! strange, how he haunts me! 
How like a poyson’d potion his eyes fright me! 
Has made himself handsome too.

Ant.  Do you look now, Lady?  You will leap anon.

Cel.  Curl’d and perfum’d?  I smell him; He looks on’s legs too, sure he will cut a caper; God-a-mercy, dear December.

Ant.  O do you smile now; I knew it would work with you; come hither pretty one.

Cel.  Sir.

Ant.  I like those courtesies well; come hither and kiss me.

Cel.  I am reading, Sir, of a short Treatise here, That’s call’d the Vanity of Lust:  has your Grace seen it?  He says here, that an Old Mans loose desire Is like the Glow-worms light, the Apes so wonder’d at:  Which when they gather’d sticks, and laid upon’t, And blew, and blew, turn’d tail, and went out presently:  And in another place he calls their loves, Faint Smells of dying Flowers, carry no comforts; They’re doting, stinking foggs, so thick and muddy, Reason with all his beams cannot beat through ’em.

Ant.  How’s this? is this the potion? you but fool still; I know you love me.