SCÆNA. II.
To them
Menalippe, Marthesia. Lights, and a Banquet follow.
Men.
—Madam, your great Designe
Goes rarely on. Your Lords are come, and are
Disposing of their Ambush.
Orith:
And have you, Menalippe,
Bespoke the false Alarme at the just houre?
Men:
Clockes strike not dulier after Quarters, Madam,
Then our she Drummer will observe her Cue,
And make things dreadfull.
Thal:
Marthesia, stand you Sentinell
Against they come.
Mar.
Troth, Madam, 'tis to me
A Comœdy before hand to imagine
How they will beare th'affright.
Men.
Methinkes I see 'em
Rolling themselves up in their owne gold Lace,
Like Urchines in their prickles. Or wishing to
Exchange place with their swords, and case themselves
In their owne scabberds.
Mar.
Stand, who comes there?
Thal:
There they are; Goe Menalippe bid the Lords
With their stout Squadron, observe their Entrances.
Exit Menal.
