_Will_. Not so, my prety boy, Ill arme the againe; My breast shall be thy quiver, my sighes thy shaffts: And heres an opportunytey to be wingd againe; Se here the wings of _Fortune_. _Love_. _Fortunes_ wings Are full of giddy feathers to unsure For me to fly with all, but I will stay with you, I like so well this aire; onely you must Provide to keepe me from the hands of _Danger_ That wayts upon _Dessert_. _Will_. Our selfes and all _Arcadia_ shall be your guard and wher _Love_ passes and recides he shall be allwayes Armd and attended by a band of lovers, Such faithfull ones as if that ugly _Danger_ Were _Lucifer_ himselfe, they should defend you. Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the _Two Noble Ladyes, or the Converted Conjurer_. This "Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with approbation at the _Red Bull_ in St. _John's_ Streete by the company of the Revells," is a coarse noisy play. The comic part consists of the most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted. But there is one scene--and one only--which shows genuine poetic power. It is where _Cyprian_, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved _Justina_, a Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:-- _Enter Cyprian and Justina_. _Cyprian_. Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride, To heare him plead for love that sav'd thy life. It was my pow'rfull arte produc'd those monsters To drowne those monstrous executioners That should have wrought your wracke. _Justina_. Sir, I am sorry Hell had a hand in my delivery: That action cannot merrit my affection. _Cyprian_. I not alleadge it for desert of grace But argument of mercie: pitty him That in distresse so lately pitty'd you. _Justina_. I am the troth-plight wife of _Clitophon_, The Prince of _Babylon_; hee has my hart, And theres no share for others. _Cyprian_. That high state Is now at a low ebbe: destruction Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls Of _Babilon_. Then fix thy love on him That can more then the greatest prince on earth. Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee; Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties As presents at thy feet; the _Indian_ mynes Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee, Sweet gums and spices of _Arabia_, Fine _Median_ linnen and Barbarian silkes; The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie But thou shalt taste it. Weele transforme ourselves In quaintest shapes to vary our delights. And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud, Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire By birds of paradise, wee'll ride together To fruitfull _Thessalie_, where in fair _Tempe_ (The only pleasant place of all the earth) Wee'll sport us under a pavilion Of _Tyrian_ scarlet.