Ang.  I feare he will perswade me to mistake him.

Syl.  Tis easily done, if you will give your minde to’t.

Ang.  Pray ye to your bed. Cha.  Why not to yours, dear Mistress, One heart and one bed. Ang.  True Sir, when ’tis lawful; But yet you know—­ Cha.  I would not know, forget it; Those are but sickly loves that hang on Ceremonie, Nurst up with doubts and feares, ours high and healthful, Full of beleefe, and fit to teach the Priest; Love shall seale first, then hands confirme the bargaine.

Ang.  I shall be an Heretique if this continue.  What would you doe a bed? you make me blush, Sir.

Cha.  Ide see you sleepe, for sure your sleepes are excellent
You that are waking such a noted wonder,
Must in your slumber prove an admiration: 
I would behold your dreames too, if’t were possible;
Those were rich showes. Ang.  I am becomming Traitor.

Cha.  Then like blew Neptune courting of an Hand,
Where all the perfumes and the pretious things
That wait upon great Nature are laid up,
Ide clip it in mine armes, and chastly kiss it,
Dwell in your bosome like your dearest thoughts,
And sigh and weepe. Ang.  I’ve too much woman in me.

Cha.  And those true teares falling on your pure Chrystals, Should turne to armelets for great Queenes ’t adore.

Ang.  I must be gone. Cha.  Do not, I will not hurt ye;
This is to let you know, my worthiest Lady,
Y’have clear’d my mind, and I can speak of love too;
Feare not my manners, though I never knew
Before these few houres what a beautie was,
And such a one that fires all hearts that feele it;
Yet I have read of vertuous temperance,
And studied it among my other secrets,
And sooner would I force a separation
Betwixt this Spirit and the case of flesh,
Than but conceive one rudeness against chastitie.

An[g].  Then we may walk. Cha.  And talk of any thing,
Any thing fit for your eares, and my language;
Though I was bred up dull I was ever civil;
Tis true, I have found it hard to looke on you,
And not desire; Twil prove a wise mans task;
Yet those desires I have so mingled still
And tempered with the quality of honour,
That if you should yeeld, I should hate you for’t. 
I am no Courtier of a light condition,
Apt to take fire at every beautious face. 
That onely serves his will and wantonness,
And lets the serious part run by
As thin neglected sand.  Whitness of name,
You must be mine; why should I robbe my selfe
Of that that lawfully must make me happy? 
Why should I seeke to cuckold my delights,
And widow all those sweets I aime at in you? 
We’l loose our selves in Venus groves of mirtle
Where every little bird shall be a Cupid,
And sing of love and youth, each winde that blowes
And curles the velvet leaves shall breed delights,
The wanton springs shall call us to their bankes,
And on the perfum’d flowers wee’l feast our senses,
Yet wee’l walk by untainted of their pleasures,
And as they were pure Temples wee’l talk in them.