JANE. My Littleworth! Fool that I was, could I Not all this while perceive 'twas thee? Why didst thou Defer my joy thus long by suffering me To stand i' th' cloud? MEAN. Alas! I guess'd I'd been Infectious to thee now; that thou wouldst look On a disease more mildly than on me; For poverty is counted a contagion. JANE. I call this kiss to witness--which I wish, If I prove false, may be the last to me Which friends pay dying friends--I ne'er will be Other's than thine. MEAN. I like the vow so well, That the same way I'll seal my promise too. If I prove not as thou (that is, most constant), May this kiss be--that I may wish it worse, Than that which is due to departing souls-- The last that I shall take from thee. I am Sent here, but yet unknown to them that send me, To be another's spokesman: the man is That foolish son of Master Credulous. Thou must pretend some liking. 'Twas thy father Granted me this access to win thee for him: Be thou no way averse; 't shall be my care So to bring things about that thou shalt be Mine by consent in spite of misery. JANE. Be secret, and love prosper thy design! [_Exit_ JANE. MEAN. Happy that man that meets such faithfulness! I did not think it had been in the sex. I know not now what's misery. Peace! my fair [_Music._ Is hallowing the lute with her bless'd touch. _A Song within._ 1. _Come, O, come, I brook no stay:_ _He doth not love that can delay._ _See how the stealing night_ _Hath blotted out the light,_ _And tapers do supply the day._ 2. _To be chaste is to be old;_ _And that foolish girl that's cold_ _Is fourscore at fifteen:_ _Desires do write us green,_ _And looser flames our youth unfold._ MEAN. 'T cannot be her, her voice was ne'er profan'd With such immodest numbers. 3. _See, the first taper's almost gone;_ _Thy flame like that will straight be none,_ _And I as it expire,_ _Not able to hold fire:_ _She loseth time that lies alone._ MEAN. 'Tis the breath Of something troubled with virginity. 4. _O, let us cherish then these powers,_ _Whiles we yet may call them ours:_ _Then we best spend our time,_ _When no dull zealous chime,_ _But sprightful kisses strike the hours._ _Enter_ PRISCILLA. MEAN. What dost thou mean? PRIS. Only to please you, sir. MEAN. Sweetest of things, was't thou? I' faith, I guess'd 'T could be no other's melody but yours. There have been many of your sex much given Unto this kind of music.