_Am._ What should ye blush at? Blush when you act your thoughts, not when you write 'em; Blush soft between a pair of sheets, sweet Cosin, Though he be a curious carried Gentleman, I cannot think He's so unnatural to leave a woman, A young, a noble, and a beauteous woman, Leave her in her desires: Men of this age Are rather prone to come before they are sent for. Hark, I hear something: up to th' Chamber, Cosin, You may spoil all else. _Enter_ Antonio _and_ Martine. _Ism._ Let me see, they are Gentlemen; It may be they. _Am._ They are they: get ye up, And like a Land-star draw him. _Ism._ I am shame-fac'd. [_Exit._ _Ant._ This is the street. _Mar._ I am looking for the house: Close, close, pray ye close here. _Ant._ No, this is a Merchants; I know the man well: _Mar._ And this a Pothecaries: I have lain here many times For a looseness in my hilts. _A[n]t._ Have ye not past it? _Mar._ No sure: There is no house of mark that we have scaped yet. _Ant._ What place is this? _Mar._ Speak softer: 'may be spies; If any, this, a goodly window too, Carv'd far above, that I perceive: 'tis dark, But she has such a lustre. _Enter_ Ismena _and_ Aminta _above with a Taper_. _Ant._ Yes _Martine_, So radiant she appears. _Mar._ Else we may miss, Sir: The night grows vengeance black, pray heaven she shine clear: Hark, hark, a window, and a candle too. _Ant._ Step close, 'tis she: I see the cloud disperse, And now the beauteous Planet. _Mar._ Ha, 'tis indeed, Now by the soul of love a Divine Creature. _Ism._ Sir, Sir. _Ant._ Most blessed Lady. _Ism._ 'Pray ye stand out. _Am._ You need not fear, there's no body now stirring. _Mar._ Beyond his commendation I am taken, Infinite strangely taken. _Am._ I love that Gentleman, Methinks he has a dainty nimble body: I love him heartily. _Ism._ 'Tis the right Gentleman: But what to say to him, Sir. _Am._ Speak. _Ant._ I wait still, And will do till I grow another Pillar, To prop this house, so it please you. _Ism._ Speak softly, And 'pray ye speak truly too. _Ant._ I never ly'd, Lady. _Ism._ And don't think me impudent to ask ye, I know ye are an enemy, speak low, But I would make ye a friend. _Ant._ I am friend to beauty; There's no handsomness, I dare be foe to. _Ism._ Are ye married? _Ant._ No. _Ism._ Are ye betroth'd? _Ant._ No, neither. _Ism._ Indeed (fair Sir.) _Ant._ Indeed (fair sweet) I am not. Most beauteous Virgin, I am free as you are. _Ism._ That may be, Sir, then ye are miserable, For I am bound.