_Ori._ I cannot, For I must be up to morrow to go to Church, And I must dress me, put my new Gown on, And be as fine to meet my Love: Heigh ho! Will not you tell me where my Love lies buried? _Mir._ He is not dead: beshrew my heart, she stirs me. _Ori._ He is dead to me. _Mir._ Is't possible my Nature Should be so damnable, to let her suffer? Give me your hand. _Ori._ How soft you feel, how gentle! I'll tell you your fortune, Friend. _Mir._ How she stares on me! _Or._ You have a flattering face, but 'tis a fine one; I warrant you may have a hundred Sweet-hearts; Will ye pray for me? I shall dye to morrow, And will ye ring the Bells? _Mir._ I am most unworthy, I do confess, unhappy; do you know me? _Ori._ I would I did. _Mir._ Oh fair tears, how ye take me! _Ori._ Do you weep too? you have not lost your Lover; You mock me; I'l go home, and pray. _Mir._ 'Pray ye pardon me: Or if it please ye to consider justly, Scorn me, for I deserve it: Scorn, and shame me: Sweet _Oriana_. _Lil._ Let her alone, she trembles; Her fits will grow more strong if ye provoke her. _La Cas._ Certain she knows ye not, yet loves to see ye: How she smiles now! [_Enter_ Belleur.] _Bel._ Where are ye? Oh, why do [not] you laugh? come, laugh at me; What a Devil! art thou sad, and such a subject, Such a ridiculous subject as I am Before thy face? _Mir._ Prithee put off this lightness; This is no time for mirth, nor place; I have us'd too much on't: I have undone my self, and a sweet Lady, By being too indulgent to my foolery, Which truly I repent; look here. _Bel._ What ails she? _Mir._ Alas, she's mad. _Bel._ Mad? _Mir._ Yes, too sure for me too. _Bel._ Dost thou wonder at that? by this [good] light they are all so; They are coz'ning mad, they are brawling mad, they are proud mad: They are all, all mad; I came from a World of mad Women. Mad as _March_-Hares; get 'em in Chains, then deal with 'em. There's one that's mad; she seems well, but she is dog-mad. Is she dead dost' think? _Mi[r]._ Dead! Heaven forbid. _Bel._ Heaven further it; For till they be key cold dead, there's no trusting of 'em, Whate'r they seem, or howsoe'r they carry it, Till they be chap-faln, and their Tongues at peace, Nail'd in their Coffins sure, I'll ne'r believe 'em, Shall I talk with her? _Mir._ No, dear friend, be quiet, And be at peace a while. _Bel._ I'll walk aside, And come again anon: but take heed to her, You say she is a Woman? _Mir._ Yes. _Bel._ Take great heed: For if she do not cozen thee, then hang me. Let her be mad, or what she will, she'll cheat thee. [_Exit._