_Lod._ This is a strange Course, _Frederick_; But sure you do not, or you would not know us; Beat us? _Piso._ 'Tis somewhat low, Sir, to a Gentleman. _Fred._ I'll speak but few words, but I'll make 'em truths; Get you gone both, and quickly, without murmuring, Or looking big; and yet before you go, I will have this confess'd, and seriously, That you two are two Rascals. _Lod._ How? _Fred._ Two Rascals. Come speak it from your hearts, or by this light My sword shall flye among ye; answer me, And to the point directly. _Piso._ You shall have Your will for this time: since we see y'are grown So far untemperate; Let it be so Sir In your opinion. _Fred._ Do not mince the matter, But speak the words plain; and you _Lodovick_ That stand so tally on your reputation, You shall be he shall speak it. _Lod._ This is pretty. _Fred._ Let me not stay upon't. _Lod._ Well we are Rascals, Yes _Piso,_ we are Rascals. [_Ex._ Lod. _and_ Piso. _Fred._ Get ye gone now, not a word more, y'are Rascals. _Enter_ Fabricio, _and_ Jacomo. _Fab._ That should be _Frederick_. _Jac._ 'Tis he: _Frederick_? _Fred._ Who's that? _Jac._ A friend Sir. _Fred._ It is so, by the voyce: I have sought you Gentlemen, and since I have found you, So near our house, I'le force ye stay a while, I pray let it be so. _Fab._ It is too late, We'l come and dine to morrow with your Sister, And do our services. _Jac._ Who were those with you? _Fab._ We met two came from hence. _Fred._ Two idle fellows, That you shall beat hereafter, and I'le tell ye Some fitter time a cause sufficient for it. _Fab._ But _Frederick_, tell me truly; do you think She can affect my friend? _Fred._ No certainer Than when I speak of him, or any other, She entertains it with as much desire As others do their recreations. _Fabr._ Let not him have this light by any means; He will but think he's mockt, and so grow angry, Even to a quarrel: he's so much distrustfull Of all that take occasion to commend him-- Women especially: for which he shuns All conversation with 'em, and believes He can be but a mirth to all their Sex, Whence is this musique? _Fred._ From my Sisters chamber. _Fab._ The touch is excellent, let's be attentive. _Jac._ Hark, are the Waits abroad? _Fab._ Be softer prethee, 'Tis private musick. _Jac._ What a dyn it makes! I had rather hear a Jews trump than these Lutes, They cry like School-boys. _Fabr._ Prethee _Jacomo_. _Jac._ Well I will hear, or sleep, I care not whether. THE SONG. _Enter at the Window_ Frank, _and_ Clora. 1. _Tell me dearest what is Love?_ 2. _'Tis a lightning from above,_ _'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,_ _'Tis a boy they call Desire._