 | VVomen pleas'd |  |
Scæna Tertia.
Enter Silvio, Belvidere, and Rodope with a light.Sil.
This is the place I think; what Light is that there?
The Lady and my Cousen?
Bel.
Is this the Garden?
Rod.
Yes Madam.
Sil.
O my blessed Mistris,
Saint of my soule.
Bel.
Speake softly: take me to ye,
O Silvio I am thine, thine ever Silvio.
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Is this your promise Sir? Lady your honour?
I am undone if this be seene, disgrac'd,
Fallen under all discredit.
Bel.
Do you love still?
Deere, do you keepe your old faith?
Sil.
Ever Lady;
And when that failes me, all that's good forsake me.
Rod.
Do not you shame? Madam, I must not suffer this,
I will not suffer it; men call you vertuous,
What do you meane to lose your selfe thus? Silvio
I charge thee get away, charge you retire ye,
Ile call the watch else.
Sil.
Call all the world to see us,
We live in one anothers happinesse,
And so will die.
Bel.
Here will I hang for ever.
Rod.
As ye respect me, as hereafter Madam
You would enjoy his love—nothing prevaile with ye?
I'le try my strength then; get thee gone thou villain,
Thou Promise-breaker.
Sil.
I am tide, I cannot.
Rod.
Ile ring the Bell then.
Sil.
Ring it to death, I am fixt here.
Enter Bartello, two Souldiers with lights.
Bart.
I saw a light over the Garden walke,
Hard by the Ladies Chamber, here's some knavery
As I live, I saw it twice.
Rod.
The Guard, the Guard there;
I must not suffer this, it is too mischievous.
Bart.
Light up the torch, I fear'd this, ha? young Silvio?
How got he in?
1. Sold.
The Divell brought him in sure
He came not by us.
Bart.
My wife between 'em busling?
Guard, pull him off.
Rod.
Now, now, ye feele the misery.
Bart.
You, Madam, at an houre so far undecent?
Death, O my soule! this is a foule fault in ye,
Your mothers care abusd too, light's to her Chamber,
I am sorry to see this.
Bell.
Farewell my Sylvio,
And let no danger sink thee.
Sil.
Nor death Lady.
Exit. Bell. Rod.
Bart.
Are ye so hot? I shall prepare ye Phisick
Will purge ye finely, neatly; you are too fiery,
Think of your prayers, Sir, and you have not forgot 'em;
Can ye fly i'th ayre, or creepe ye in at key-holes?
I have a gyn will catch ye though you conjur'd:
Take him to Guard to night, to strong and sure Guard;
Ile back to'th Dutchesse presently: no lesse sport serve ye,
Then the Heire to a Dukedom? play at push-pin there Sir?
It was well aim'd, but plague upon't, you shot short,
And that will lose your game.
Sil.
I know the losse then.
Exeunt.
| VVomen pleas'd | |