Whiteness of name, you must be mine; why should I
rob my self of that that lawfully must make me happy? why should I seek to
cuckold my delights, and widow all those sweets I aim at in you? We'll
lose our selves in _Venus_ Groves of Myrtle, where every little Bird shall
be a _Cupid_, and sing of love and youth, each wind that blows, and curls
the velvet-leaves, shall breed delights, the wanton Springs shall call us
to their banks, and on the perfum'd flowers we'll feast our senses; yet
we'll walk by untainted of their pleasures, and as they were pure Temples
we'll talk in them.
_Ang_. To bed, and pray then, we may have a fair end of our fair loves;
would I were worthy of you, or of such parents that might give you thanks:
But I am poor in all but in your love. Once more, good night.
_Char_. A good night t'ye, and may the dew of sleep fall gently on you,
sweet one, and lock up those fair lights in pleasing slumbers; no dreams
but chaste and clear attempt your fancy, and break betimes sweet morn,
I've lost my light else.
_Ang_. Let it be ever night when I lose you.
_Syl_. This Scholar never went to a Free-School, he's so simple.
_Enter a_ Servant.
_Serv_. Your Brother, with two Gallants, is at door, Sir, and they're so
violent, they'll take no denial.
_Ang_. This is no fit time of night.
_Char_. Let 'em in, Mistris.
_Serv_. They stay no leave; shall I raise the house on 'em?
_Char_.
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