_Cleo. Cupid_, pardon what is past, And forgive our sins at last, Then we will be coy no more, But thy Deity Adore, Troths at fifteen we will plight, And will tread a Dance [each] night. In the fields, or by the Fire, With the youths that have desire. (_How does she yet?_) _Hero._ O ill: _Cleo._ Given Ear-rings we will wear, Bracelets of our Lovers hair, Which they on our Arms shall twist, With their Names carv'd on our wrist: All the money that we owe, We in Tokens will bestow: And learn to write, that when 'tis sent, Onely our Loves know what it meant: O then pardon what is past, And forgive our Sins at last. (_What, Mends she?_) _Hero._ Nothing, you do it not wantonly, you shou'd sing. [_Cleo._ Why? _Hero._ Leave, leave, 'tis now too late. Shee is dead: Her last is breathed.] _Cleo._ What shall we doe. _Hero._ Go run, And tell the _Duke_; And whilst I'll close her eyes. Thus I shut thy faded light, And put it in eternall night. Where is she can boldly say Though she be as fresh as _May_: She shall not by this Corps be laid, Ere to morrows light doe fade. Let us all now living be, Warn'd by thy strict Chastitie; And marry all fast as we can, Till then we keep a piece of man, Wrongfully from them that owe it Soon may every Maid bestow it. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Bacha and a Maid._ _Bac._ Who is it? _Maid._ Forsooth there's [a] gallant Coach at the dore, And the brave old man in't, that you said was the _Duke_. _Bacha. Cupid_, grant he may be taken. _Away_: _Maid._ He is coming up, and looks the swaggeringst, and has such glorious cloaths. _Bac._ Let all the house see me sad, and see all handsome. _Enter Leontius, and Timantus, a Jewell and a Ring._ _Leon._ Nay widow flie not back, we come not now to chide, stand up and bid me welcome. _Bac._ To a poor widows house that knows no end of her ill fortune: your Highness is most welcome. _Leon._ Come kiss me then, this is but manners widow: Nere fling your head aside, I have more cause of grief than you: my Daughters dead: but what? 'Tis nothing. Is the rough _French_ horse brought to the dore? They say he is a high goer, I shall soon try his mettle. _Tim._ He will be Sir, and the gray _Barbary_, they are fiery both. _Leon._ They are the better: Before the gods I am lightsome, very lightsome: How doest thou like me widow? _Bach._ As a person in whom all graces are. _Leon._ Come, come, ye flatter: I'll clap your cheek for that, and you shall not be angry. Hast no _Musick_: Now could I cut three times with ease, and do a cross point, should shame all your gallants.