_Lisa._ That part of noble love which is most sweet, And gives eternal being to fair beauty, Honour, you hack i' pieces with your swords, And that ye fight to crown, ye kill, fair credit. _Clar._ Thus we embrace, no more fight, but all friendship, And where love pleases to bestow his benefits, Let us not argue. _Lid._ Nay, brave Sir, come in too; You may love also, and may hope, if ye do, And not rewarded for't, there is no justice; Farewel friend, here let's part upon our pilgrimage, It must be so, _Cupid_ draws on our sorrows. And where the lot lights-- _Clar._ I shall count it happiness, Farewel, dear friend. _Lis._ First, let's relieve the Gentleman That lyes hurt in your cause, and bring him off, And take some care for your hurts, then I will part too, A third unfortunate, and willing wanderer. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Olinda, _and_ Calista. _Oli._ My fears foresaw 'twould come to this. _Cal._ I would your sentence had been milder. _Olln._ 'Tis past help now. _Cal._ I share in your despair, and yet my hopes Have not quite left me, since all possible means Are practised to prevent the mischief following Their mortal meeting, my Lord is coasted one way, My Father, though his hurts forbad his travel, Hath took another, my Brother in Law _Beronte_ A third, and every minute we must look for The certain knowledge, which we must endure With that calm patience heav'n shall please to lend us. _Enter_ Dorilaus, _and_ Cleander, _severally._ _Dor._ Dead both? _Clea._ Such is the rumour, and 'tis general. _Olin._ I hear my passing bell. _Cal._ I am in a fevour. _Cle._ They say their seconds too; but what they are, Is not known yet, some worthy fellows certain. _Dor._ Where had you knowledge? _Clea._ Of the Country people, 'tis spoken every where. _Dor._ I heard it so too; And 'tis so common, I do half believe it, You have lost a Brother, wench, he lov'd you well, And might have liv'd to have done his country service, But he is gone, thou fell'st untimely, _Lidian_, But by a valiant hand, that's some small comfort, And took him with thee too, thou lov'st brave company, Weeping will do no good, you lost a servant, He might have liv'd to have been your Master, Lady, But you fear'd that. _Olin._ Good Sir, be tender to me, The news is bad enough, you need not press it, I lov'd him well, I lov'd 'em both. _Dor._ It seems so. How many more have you to love so Lady? They were both fools to fight for such a Fiddle; Certain there was a dearth of noble anger, When a slight woman was thought worth a quarrel. _Olin._ Pray you think nobler.