_Hidas._ Oh blasphemy: he may perhaps to thee Appear deform'd, for he is indeed Unlike a man: his shape and colours are Beyond the Art of Painting; he is like Nothing that we have seen, yet doth resemble _Apollo_, as I oft have fancied him, When rising from his bed, he stirs himself And shakes day from his hair. _Cleo._ He resembles _Apollo_'s Recorder. _Hidas. Cleophila_, go send a Page for him, And thou shalt see thy error, and repent. [_Exit_ Cleo. Alas, what do I feel, my bloud rebells, And I am one of those I us'd to scorn, My Maiden-thoughts are fled against my self, I harbor Traitors in my Virginity, That from my Childhood kept me company, Is heavier than I can endure to bear: Forgive me _Cupid_, for thou art a god, And I a wretched creature; I have sinn'd, But be thou merciful, and grant that yet I may enjoy what thou wilt have me, Love. _Enter_ Cleo. _and_ Zoy. [_Cleo._] _Zoylous_ is here Madam. _Hida._ He's there indeed. Now be thine own Judge; see thou worse than mad, Is he deformed? look upon those eyes, That let all pleasure out into the world, Unhappy that they cannot see themselves; Look on his hair, that like so many beams, Streaking the _East_, shoot light o'er half the world, Look on him altogether, who is made As if two Natures had contention About their skill, and one had brought forth him. _Zoy._ Ha, ha, ha: Madam, though Nature Hath not given me so much As others in my outward shew; I bear a heart as loyal unto you In this unsightly body (which you please To make your mirth) as many others do That are far more befriended in their births; Yet I could wish my self much more deformed Than yet I am, so I might make your Grace More merry than you are, ha, ha, ha. _Hidas._ Beshrew me then if I be merry; But I[am] content whilst thou art with me: Thou that art my Saint: By hope of whose mild favour I do live To tell thee so: I pray thee scorn me not; Alas what can it add unto thy worth To triumph over me, that am a Maid, Without deceit? whose heart doth guide her tongue, Drown'd in my passions; yet I will take leave To call it reason that I dote on thee. _Cleo._ The Princess is besides her Grace I think, To talk thus with a fellow that will hardly Serve i'th' dark when one is drunk. _Hida._ What answer wilt thou give me? _Zoy._ If it please your Grace to jest on, I can abide it.