_Jul._ What follows now Prince _Paris_? [Flor. _within._----_H[e]lp, help, help._ _B[u]st._ Hue and cry, I think Sir, this is _Venus_ voice, Mine own Sister _Flori[m]els_. _Mar._ What is there some Tragick-Act behind? _Bust._ No, no, altogether Comical; _Mars_ and _Venus_ Are in the old conjunction it seems. _Mar._ 'Tis very improper then, for _Venus_ Never cries out when she conjoyns with _Mars_. _Bust._ That's true indeed: they are out of their parts sure, It may be 'Tis the Book-holders fault: I'll go see.-- [_Exit._ _Jul._ How like you our Countrey Revels, Gentlemen? _All Gent._ Oh, they commend themselves, Sir. _Ant._ Methinks now _Juno_ and _Minerva_ should take revenge on _Paris_. It cannot end without it. _Mar._ I did expect Instead of _Mars_, the Storm-G[ao]ler _Eolus_, And _Juno_ proff'ring her _Deiopeia_ As satisfaction to the blustring god, To send his Tossers forth. _Jul._ It may so follow, Lets not prejudicate the History. _Enter_ Bustofa. _Bust._ Oh, oh, oh, oh. _Jul._ So, here's a Passion towards. _Bust._ Help, help, if you be Gentlemen; my Sister, My _Venus_; she's stolen away. _Jul._ The story changes from our expectation. _Bust._ Help, my father, the Miller will hang me else: god _Mars_ Is a bawdy Villain: he said she should ride upon Doves: She's hors'd, she's hors'd, whether she will or no. _Mar._ Sure I think he's serious. _Bust._ She's hors'd upon a double Gelding, and a Stone-horse in the breech Of her: the poor wench cries help, and I cry help, and none Of you will help. _Jul._ Speak, is it the show, or dost thou bawl? _Bust._ A pox on the Ball: my Sister bawls, and I bawl: Either bridle horse and follow, or give me a halter To hang my self: I cannot run so fast as a hog. _Jul._ Follow me, I'll fill the Countrey with pursuit But I will find the thief: my house thus abus'd? _Bust._ 'Tis my house that's abus'd, the Sister of my flesh and bloud: oh, oh. [_Exeunt._ _1. Wench._ {'Tis time we all shift for our selves, if this be serious. _2._ {However I'll be gone. _3._ {And I. [_Exeunt._ _Ant._ You need not fright your beauties pretty souls, With the least pale complexion of a fear. _Mar. Juno_ has better courage: and _Minerva_'s more discreet. _Ism._ Alas my courage was so counterfeit It might have been struck from me with a Feather. _Juno_ ne'r had so weak a presenter. _Am._ Sure I was ne'r the wiser for _Minerva_, That I find yet about me. _Ism._ My dwelling, Sir? 'Tis a poor yeomans roof, scarce a league off, That never sham'd me yet.