Song, Dance. _Enter_ Rutilio. _Rut_. How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding? This is more like a funeral. _Char_. It is one, And my poor Daughter going to her grave, To his most loath'd embraces that gapes for her. Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir? _Rut_. Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion Have her maiden-head now? [_Char_.] There's no avoiding it. _Rut_. And there's the scaffold where she must lose it. [_Char_.] The bed Sir. _Rut_. No way to wipe his mouldy chaps? _Char_. That we know. _Rut_. To any honest well-deserving fellow, And 'twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now, I love the game so well; but that this puckfist, This universal rutter--fare ye well Sir; And if you have any good prayers, put 'em forward, There may be yet a remedie. _Char_. I wish it, [_Exit_ Rut. And all my best devotions offer to it. _Enter_ Clodio, _and_ Guard. _Clod_. Now is this tye dispatch'd? _Char_. I think it be Sir. _Clod_. And my bed ready? _Char_. There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath'd preparation. _Clod_. Never grumble, Nor fling a discontent upon my pleasure, It must and shall be done: give me some wine, And fill it till it leap upon my lips: [_wine_ Here's to the foolish maidenhead you wot of, The toy I must take pains for. _Char_. I beseech your Lordship Load not a Fathers love. _Clod_. Pledge it _Charino_, Or by my life I'le make thee pledge thy last, And be sure she be a maid, a perfect Virgin, (I will not have my expectation dull'd) Or your old pate goes off. I am hot and fiery, And my bloud beats alarms through my body, And fancie high. You of my guard retire, And let me hear no noise about the lodging But musick and sweet ayres, now fetch your Daughter, And bid the coy wench put on all her beauties, All her enticements, out-blush damask Roses, And dim the breaking East with her bright Crystals. I am all on fire, away. _Char_. And I am frozen. [_Exit_. _Enter_ Zenocia _with Bow and Quiver, an Arrow bent_, Arnoldo _and_ Rutilio _after her, arm'd_. _Zen_. Come fearless on. _Rut_. Nay an I budge from thee Beat me with durty sticks. _Clod_. What Masque is this? What pretty fancy to provoke me high? The beauteous Huntress, fairer far, and sweeter; Diana shewes an Ethiop to this beauty Protected by two Virgin Knights. _Rut_. That's a lye, A loud one, if you knew as much as I do, The Guard's dispers'd. _Arn_. Fortune I hope invites us. _Clod_. I can no longer hold, she pulls my heart from me. _Zen_. Stand, and stand fixt, move not a foot, nor speak not, For if thou doest, upon this point thy death sits. Thou miserable, base, and sordid lecher, Thou scum of noble blood, repent and speedily, Repent thy thousand thefts, from helpless Virgins, Their innocence betrayed to thy embraces.