I say sit down, I do command you sit;
      For look what honour thou dost gain by me,
      I cannot lose it:  happy Antinous,
      The graces and the higher Deities
      Smil’d at thy Birth, and still continue it: 
      Then think that I (who scorn lesser examples)
      Must do the like:  such as do taste my power,
      And talk of it with fear and reverence,
      Shall do the same unto the man I favour. 
      I tell thee Youth, thou hast a conquest won,
      Since thou cam’st home, greater than that last,
      Which dignified thy Fame, greater than if
      Thou should’st go out again, and conquer farther;
      For I am not ashamed to acknowledge
      My self subdued by thee.

Antinous: 

      Great Lady—­

Erota: 

      Sit still, I will not hear thee else; now speak,
      And speak like my Antinous, like my Souldier,
      Whom Cupid, and not Mars hath sent to Battel.

Antinous: 

I must (I see) be silent.
272]

Erota: 

      So thou maist;
      There’s greater action in it than in clamour,
      A look (if it be gracious) will begin the War,
      A word conclude it; then prove no Coward,
      Since thou hast such a friendly enemy,
      That teaches thee to conquer.

Antinous: 

      You do amaze me, Madam,
      I have no skill, no practice in this War,
      And whether you be serious, or please
      To make your sport on a dejected man,
      I cannot rightly guess; but be it as it will,
      It is a like unhappiness to me: 
      My discontents bear those conditions in them,
      And lay me out so wretched, no designs
      (However truly promising a good)
      Can make me relish ought but a sweet-bitter
      Voluntary Exile.

Erota: 

      Why an Exile? 
      What comfort can there be in those Companions
      Which sad thoughts bring along with?

      [Enter Hyparcha]

Hyparcha: 

      Madam.

[Musick.

Erota: 

      Whence comes this well tun’d sound?

Hyparcha: 

      I know not, Madam.

Erota: 

      Listen Wench;
      What ever friendly hands they are that send it,

[Song.

      Let ’em play on; they are Masters of their faculty: 
      Doth it please you, Sir?

Antinous: 

      According to the time.

Erota: 

      Go to ’em, Wench,
      And tell ’em, we shall thank ’em; for they have kept
      As good time to our disposition, as to their instruments;
      Unless Antinous shall say he loves,
      There never can be sweeter accents utter’d.

      [Enter Philander.]