Yet I must wear thee to protect my crimes, If not for conscience, for hypocrisie, Some Churchmen so wear Cassocks: Oh my _Zan_. My Pearl, that scornes a stain! I mu[ch] repent All my neglect: let me _Ixion_ like, Embrace my black cloud, since my _Juno_ is So wrathful, and averse; thou art more soft And full of dalliance than the fairest flesh, And far more loving. _Zan._ I, you say so now, But like a property, when I have serv'd Your turns, you'll cast me off, or hang me up For a sign, somewhere. _Mount._ May my life then forsake me Or from my expected bliss, be cast to hell. _Zan._ My tongue Sir, cannot lisp to meet you so, Nor my black cheeck put on a feigned blush, To make me seem more modest than I am. This ground-work, will not bear adulterate red, Nor artificial white, to cozen love. These dark locks, are not purchas'd, nor these teeth, For every night, they are my bed-fellows; No bath, no blanching water; smoothing oyles, Doth mend me up; and yet _Mountferrat_, know, I am as full of pleasure in the touch As ere a white fac'd puppet of 'em all, Juicy, and firm, unfledge 'em of their tyres, Their wires, their partlets; pins, and Periwigs, And they appear like bald cootes, in the nest; I can as blithly work in my loves bed, And deck thy fair neck, with these Jetty chains, Sing thee asleep, being wearied, and refresh'd, With the same organ, steal sleep off again. _Mount._ Oh my black swan, sleeker then Cignets plush, Sweeter than is the sweet of Pomander, Breath'd like curl'd _Zephyrus_, cooling Lymon-trees, Straight as young pines, or Cedars in the grove, Quickly discend lovers best Canopie Still night, for _Zanthia_ doth enamour me Beyond all continence perpetrate (deer wench) What thou hast promis'd, and I vow by heaven _Malta_, I'll leave [in it] my honours here, And in some other Country (_Zanthia_) make My wife, and my best fortune. _Zan._ From this hope, Here is an answer to that Letter, which I lately shew'd you sent from _Tripoly_, By the great Basha, which importunes her Love unto him, and treachery to the Island, Which will she undertake, by _Mahomet_ The _Turk_ there vowes, on his blest _Alcharon_, Marriage unto her: this the Master knows, But is resolv'd of her integrity (As well [he] may) sweet Lady yet for love, For love of thee _Mountferrat_, (Oh! what Chains Of deity, or duty can hold love?) I have this answer fram'd, so like her hand As if it had been moulded off: returning The Bashas Letter safe into her pocket; What will you do with it, your self best knows, Farewel, keep my true heart, keep true your vows. [_Exit Zan._