BEL. Hear me, and thou shalt go. I do confess I do deserve all this, Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe, But will recover it, or pay my life. Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first. I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man, Upon my knees-- [_Kneels._] Thou most implacable man, since penitence And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon, I charge thee use some means to set me free, [_Rises again._] Before the revels of this night have end. Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed; Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife, Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife. [_Exit._ SCUD. Pish! do: the world will have one mischief less. [_Exit._ SCENE III. _Enter_ SIR ABRAHAM NINNY, _throwing down his bowl_. ABRA. Bowl they that list, for I will bowl no more. Cupid, that little bowler, in my breast Rubs at my heart, and will not let me rest. [_Within: Rub, rub, fly, fly._[35] Ay, ay, you may cry _Rub, fly_, to your bowls, For you are free: love troubles not your jowls, But from my head to heel, from heel to heart: Behind, before, and roundabout I smart. Then in this arbour, sitting all alone, In doleful ditty let me howl my moan. O boy![36] leave pricking, for I vail my bonnet:[37] Give me but breath, while I do write a sonnet. _Enter_ PENDANT. PEN. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. Yonder he sits at his muse, by heaven, drowned in the ocean of his love. Lord! how he labours, like a hard-bound poet whose brains had a frost in 'em. Now it comes. ABRA. _I die, I sigh_. PEN. What, after you are dead? very good. ABRA. _I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel_. PEN. Good; because she is hard-hearted. ABRA. _I die_. [_Write._ PEN. He has died three times, and come again. ABRA. ----_I sigh, thou precious stony jewel. Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel_. [_Write._ PEN. O Newington conceit! And quieting eke.[38] ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish ditty_. PEN. You say true, in troth, sir. ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit- Ty unto thee, pity both him and it_. [_Write._ PEN. _Ty unto thee:_ well, if she do not pity both, 'tis pity she should live.