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Scena 2a
Comastes in haste—Comastes.
How snaile pacde are we in A noble cause
A fathers safe guarde? but stay I see'm
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seduce this pore blinde man? doth not
My sister sitt heavye enough on thy shakeinge
Conscience? or is thy soule onely secure
When it com̄itts so greate A sinn blotts out
ye former? Thou seest hee's olde, that deserves
Reverence: his blindenes pitty
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Whose that prates thus?
Lysan:
Eene yr sonne Comastes, who rayles because I waite—
On you To Facetias nuptialls
Coma:
Sr be there faith in men tis false
Cæcil:
I do beleeve thee com alonge wt h vs
Comas:
Tis false
That she you hande & leade in mufled zeale
Is any thinge but what (if you had eyes)
You durste not looke vpon Tis a Negro Sr
Cæcili:
You are A Nigromancer & thincke to conjure me
Out of my love.
Lysan:
Thats all ye plott.
Comas:
Wicked man it is A sinn to pardon him—
Drawes
Lysa:
Thou wilt not fight vpon thy fathers weddinge day
And make A centawres marriage ont, wilt yu?
Comas:
And you then jeereinge villaine draw or else
Thou sufferest like thy selfe.
Lysan:
Olympa hanges like leade vpon my armes
Bessides or law strictly forbiddinge duells
And by or sacred viceroy so observed
Tyes vp my handes: Comastes I will yeeld
But to ye law not thee.
Exit Lysand:
Comas:
He hath not soule enough to loose
Tis better, thus ye law is kept & I
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Sr be advisde; Lysander is gone hence—
To Cæcil:
Wash yr pure hande of that so ougly holds
Let loose ye Moore. .do not persiste
To Olymp:
Leaste that My sworde make thee for ever
Vncapable to give thy hande to any.
Ile cutt it of I will, be suddaine.
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Sirrah yt sworde shall be ten swordes to thee
I will cutt of ye Entayle of my landes
Thou makst so sure of; expecte not A foote
Of my grounde noe not so much wheron
Thou mayst stande & begg.
Comas:
Hee is to High incensed I will finde out
Some safer course to hinder him.—
Exit Com:
Olymp:
What has he left vs thus? Sr now Comastes too
Is gone will you beleeve me speakeinge of my self?
Cæcili:
Yes as an Oracle. I smell ye knave
Facetia muste be A blackamoore (If I marry her)
But to himselfe all heavenly beauty.
Olimp:
Will you beleeve me then? Indeed I am
As blacke as they perswade you: pray Sr be
Perswaded. All but yr selfe do flye me run̄e away
And so would you too did you but see what
They see: Sr I am not Facetia.
Cæcili:
Ha?
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