_Merciless Love, whom nature hath deny'd_ _The use of eyes, lest thou should'st take a pride_ _And glorie in thy murthers: Why am I_ _That never yet transgress'd thy deity,_ _Never broke vow, from whose eyes never_ _Flew disdainfull dart_ _Whose hard heart never,_ _Slew those rewarders?_ _Thou art young and fair,_ _Thy Mother soft and gentle as the air,_ _Thy holy fire still burning, blown with praier._ _Then everlasting Love restrain thy will_ _'Tis God-like to have power but not to kill._ _Ant._ This is his Lute: let him have it. _Pet._ I grant you; but who strikes it? _Ant._ An admirable voice too, hark ye. _Pet._ _Anthony_, Art sure we are at home? _Ant._ Without all doubt, _Peter_. _Pet._ Then this must be the Devil. _Ant._ Let it be, [_Sing again._ Good Devil sing again: O dainty Devil! _Peter_ believe it, a most delicate Devil, The sweetest Devil-- _Enter_ Frederick, _and Don_ John. _Fred._ If ye could leave peeping. _John._ I cannot by no means. _Fred._ Then come in softly, And as ye love your faith, presume no further Than ye have promised. _John._ _Basta._ _Fred._ What make you up so early Sir? _John._ You Sir in your contemplations. _Pet._ O pray ye peace Sir. _Fred._ Why peace Sir? _Pet._ Do you hear? _John._ 'Tis your Lute. _Fred._ Pray ye speak softly, She's playing on't. _Ant._ The house is haunted Sir, For this we have heard this half year. _Fred._ Ye saw nothing? _Ant._ Not I. _Pet._ Nor I Sir. _Fred._ Get us our breakfast then, And make no words on't; we'll undertake this spirit, If it be one. _Ant._ This is no Devil _Peter_. [_Sing. Exeunt Servants._ Mum, there be Bats abroad. _Fred._ Stay, now she sings. _John._ An Angels voice I'le swear. _Fred._ Why did'st thou shrug so? Either allay this heat; or as I live I will not trust ye. _John._ Pass: I warrant ye. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Constantia. _Con._ To curse those stars, that men say govern us, To rail at fortune, fall out with my Fate, And tax the general world, will help me nothing: Alas, I am the same still, neither are they Subject to helps, or hurts: Our own desires Are our own fates, our own stars, all our fortunes, Which as we sway 'em, so abuse, or bless us. _Enter_ Frederick, _and Don_ John, _peeping_. _Fred._ Peace to your meditations. _John._ Pox upon ye, Stand out o'th' light. _Const._ I crave your mercy Sir, My minde o're-charg'd with care made me unmannerly. _Fred._ Pray ye set that mind at rest, all shall be perfect.