_Qu._ Good morrow to ye all, why stand ye wondring? Enter the house Sir, and bring out your Mistriss, You must observe our Ceremonies: what's the matter? What's that ye stand at? How _Merione_? Asleep i'th' street? belike some sudden Palsie As she stept out last night upon devotion, To take her farewel of her Virgin state, The air being sharp and piercing, struck her suddenly: See if she breath. _Leo._ A little. _Qu._ Wake her then, 'Tis sure a fit. _Ag._ She wakes her self, Give room to her. _Qu._ See how the spirits struggle to recover, And strongly reinforce their strength; for certain This was no natural sleep. _The._ I am of your mind, Madam. _Qu._ No Son, it cannot be. _The._ Pray Heaven no trick in't; Good Soul she little merits such a mischief. _Qu._ She is broad awake now, and her sence cleers up, 'Twas sure a fit; stand off. _Mer._ The Queen, my Love here, And all my noble friends? Why where am I? How am I tranc'd, and moap'd? I' th' street? Heaven bless me, Shame to my Sex; o'th' ground too? O I remember-- _Leo._ How wild she looks? _Ag._ Oh my cold heart, how she trembles! _Mer._ Oh I remember, I remember. _Qu._ What's that? _Mer._ My shame, my shame, my shame: Oh I remember My never-dying shame. _The._ Here has been villanie. _Qu._ I fear so too. _Mer._ You are no Furies are ye? No horrid shapes sent to affright me? _Ag._ No sweet, We are your friends: look up, I am _Agenor_, O my _Merione_, that loves you dearly: And come to marry ye. _Leo._ Sister, what ail ye? Speak out your griefs, and boldly-- _Ag._ Something sticks here Will choak ye else. _Mer._ I hope it will. _Qu._ Be free Lady, You have your loving friends about ye. _A[g]._ Dear _Merione_, By the unspotted love I ever bore ye, By thine own goodness-- _Mer._ Oh 'tis gone, 'tis gone Sir, I am now I know not what: pray ye look not on me, No name is left me, nothing to inherit But that detested, base, and branded-- _Ag._ Speak it, And how; diseases of most danger Their causes once discover'd are easily cur'd: My fair _Merione_. _Mer._ I thank your love Sir; When I was fair _Merione_, unspotted, Pure, and unblasted in the bud you honour'd, White as the heart of truth, then Prince _Agenor_, Even then I was not worthy of your favour; Wretch that I am, less worthy now of pitty: Let no good thing come near me, virtue flie me; You that have honest noble names despise me, For I am nothing now but a main pestilence Able to poison all. Send those unto me That have forgot their names, ruin'd their fortunes, Despis'd their honours; those that have been Virgins Ravish'd and wrong'd, and yet dare live to tell it. _The._ Now it appears too plain.