There are so many cross ways, there's no following her; And yet I must not now; I hope she is right still, For all her outward shew, for sure she knew me; And in that hope, some few hours I'll forget her. [_Exit._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Roderigo. _Rod._ She is not to be recovered, which I vex at; And he beyond my veng'ance, which torments me; O! I am fool'd and sleighted, made a Rascal; My hopes are flatter'd, as my present fortunes; Why should I wander thus, and play the Coxcomb? Tire out my peace and pleasure for a Girl? A Girl that scorns me too? a thing that hates me? And considered at the best, is but a short Breakfast For a hot appetite: why should I walk and walk thus? And fret my self, and travel like a Carrier, And peep, and watch? want Meat, and Wine, to cherish me, When thousand women may be had, ten thousand, And thank me too, and I sit still: well, trim Beauty And Chastity, and all that seem to ruine me, Let me not take ye, let me not come near ye, For I'll so trim ye, I'll so bustle with ye; 'Tis not the name of Virgin shall redeem ye, I'll change that property: nor tears, nor angers; I bear a hate about me scorns those follies. To find this Villain too, for there's my main prize: And if he snap me then. _Enter_ Alinda. _Alind._ Is not that _Pedro_? 'Tis he, 'tis he: O! _Rod._ What art thou? _Alind._ Ha? now, now, now, O now most miserable. _Rod._ What a Devil art thou? _Alin._ No end of my misfortunes, Heaven? _Rod._ What antick? Speak Puppet, speak. _Alind._ That habit to betray me? Ye holy Saints, can ye see this? _Rod._ It danceth; The Devil in a Fools Coat, is he turn'd Innocent? What mops and mows it makes! heigh! how it frisketh! Is't not a Fairy, or some small Hobgoblin? It has a mortal face, and I have a great mind to it, But if it should prove the Devil then. _Alin._ Come hither. _Rod._ I think 'twill ravish me, It is a handsome thing, but horribly Sun-burnt, What's that it points at? _Alin._ Dost thou see that star there, That just above the Sun? Prithee go thither, and light me this Tobacco, And stop it with the horns o'th' Moon. _Rod._ The thing's mad, Abominably mad, her brains are butter'd, Go sleep, fool, sleep. _Alin._ Thou canst not sleep so sweetly; For so I can say my Prayers, and then slumber. _I am not proud, nor full of Wine,_ _This little Flower will make me fine;_ _Cruel in Heart, for I will cry,_ _If I see a Sparrow dye;_ _I am not watchful to do ill,_ _Nor glorious to pursue it still;_ _Nor pitiless to those that weep;_ _Such as are, bid them go sleep._ Do, do, do, and see if they can.