_Enter_ Florimel. _Bust._ O sweet _Diego_, the sweetest _Diego_, stay: Sister _Florimel_. _Flo._ What's that Brother? _Bust._ Didst not hear _Diego_? Hear him, and thou'lt be ravish'd. _Flo._ I have heard him sing, yet unravish'd, Brother. _Bust._ You had the better luck (Sister.) I was ravish'd By my own consent: Come away: for the Sports. _Flo._ I have the fear of a Father on me (Brother.) _Bust._ Out: the thief is as safe as in his Mill: he's hunting with our Great Land-lord, the Don _Otrante_. Strike up _Diego_. _Flo._ But say he return before us, where's our excuse? _Bust._ Strike up _Diego_. Hast no strings to thy apron? _Flo._ Well, the fault lie upon your head (Brother.) _Bust._ My faults never mount so high (girl) they rise but to My middle at most. Strike up _Diego_. _Ger._ Follow me by the ear, I'll lead thee on (_Bustofa_) and Pretty _Florimel_ thy Sister: oh that I could see her. _Bust._ Oh _Diego_, there's two pities upon thee; great pitie thou art blind; And as great a pitie, thou canst not see. SONG. Ger. _You shall have Crowns of Roses, Daysies,_ _Buds, where the honey-maker gazes;_ _You shall taste the golden thighs,_ _Such as in Wax-Chamber lies._ _What fruit please you, taste, freely pull,_ _Till you have all your bellies full._ _Come follow me, &c._ _Bust._ Oh, _Diego_, the Don was not so sweet when he perfum'd the Steeple. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Secunda._ _Enter_ Antonio _and Martine_. _Mar._ Why, how now (Friend) thou art not lost agen? _Ant._ Not lost? why, all the world's a wilderness: Some places peopled more by braver beasts Than others are: But faces, faces (man) May a man be caught with faces? _Mar._ Without wonder, 'Tis odds against him: May not a good face Lead a man about by th' nose? 'las, The nose is but a part against the whole. _Ant._ But is it possible that two faces Should be so twin'd in form, complexion, Figure, aspect? that neither wen, nor mole, The Table of the brow, the eyes lustre, The lips cherry; neither the blush nor smile Should give the one distinction from the other? Does Nature work in molds? _Mar._ Altogether. We are all one mold, one dust. _Ant._ Thy reason's moldie. I speak from the Form, thou the Matter. Why? was't not ever one of Natures Glories, Nay, her great piece of wonder, that amongst So many millions millions of her works She left the eye distinction, to cull out The one from th'other; yet all one name, the face? _Mar._ You must compare 'em by some other part Of the body, if the face cannot do't. _Ant._ Didst ask her name?