Oh great Corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank States, thou grand decider Of dusty, and old Titles, that heal'st with blood The earth when it is sick, and curst the world O' th' pl[u]resie of people; I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design; march boldly, let us goe. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Palamon _and his Knights, with the former observance_. _Pal._ Our stars must glister with new fire, or be To day extinct; our argument is love, Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives Victory too, then blend your spirits with mine, You, whose free nobleness do make my cause Your personal hazard; to the goddess _Venus_ Commend we our proceeding, and implore Her power unto our partie. [_Here they kneel as formerly._ Hail Sovereign Queen of secrets, who hast power To call the fiercest Tyrant from his rage; And weep unto a Girl; that hast the might Even with an eye-glance, to choak _Marsis_ Drum And turn th' allarm to whispers, that canst make A Cripple florish with his Crutch, and cure him Before _Apollo_; that may'st force the King To be his subjects vassal, and induce Stale gravity to [daunce], the pould Batchelor Whose youth like wanton boys through Bonfires Have skipt thy flame, at seventy, thou canst catch And make him to the scorn of his hoarse throat Abuse young lays of Love; what godlike power Hast thou not power upon? To _Phoebus_ thou Add'st flames, hotter than his the heavenly fires Did scorch his mortal Son, thine him; the huntress All moist and cold, some say, began to throw Her Bow away, and sigh: take to thy grace Me thy vow'd Soldier, who do bear thy yoak As 'twere a wreath of Roses, yet is heavier Than Lead it self, stings more than Nettles; I have never been foul-mouth'd against thy Law, Ne'er reveal'd secret, for I knew none; would not Had I ken'd all that were; I never practis'd Upon mans wife, nor would the Libels read Of liberal wits: I never at great feasts Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush'd At simpring Sirs that did: I have been harsh To large Confessors, and have hotly ask'd 'em If they had Mothers, I had one, a woman, And women 't were they wrong'd. I knew a man Of eighty winters, this I told them, who A Lass of fourteen brided, 'twas thy power To put life into dust, the aged Cramp Had screw'd his square foot round, The Gout had knit his fingers into knots, Torturing Convulsions from his globy eies, Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life In him seem'd torture: this Anatomie Had by his young fair [pheare] a Boy, and I Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was, And who would not believe her? brief I am To those that prate, and have done, no Companion; To those that boast and have not, a defyer;