See what our General of Ebbs and Flows Out from the bowels of her holy Altar With sacred Act advances: But one Rose, If well inspir'd, this Battel shall confound Both these brave Knights, and I a Virgin Flower Must grow alone unpluck'd. [_Here is heard a sodain twang of Instruments,_ _and the Rose falls from the Tree._ The Flower is fall'n, the Tree descends: oh Mistriss Thou here dischargest me, I shall be gather'd, I think so, but I know not thine own Will; Unclaspe th[y] Mistery: I hope she's pleas'd, Her Signs were gracious. [_They curt'sey, and Exeunt._ _Scæna Secunda._ _Enter Doctor, Jaylor, and Woo[e]r, in habit of_ Palamon. _Doct._ Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her? _Woo._ Oh very much; the Maids that kept her company Have half perswaded her that I am _Palamon_; within this Half hour she came smiling to me, and ask'd me what I Would eat, and when I would kiss her: I told her, Presently, and kist her twice. _Doct._ 'Twas well done; twenty times had been far better, For there the cure lies mainly. _Woo._ Then she told me She would watch with me to night, for well she knew What hour my fit would take me. _Doct._ Let her do so, And when your fit comes, fit her home, And presently. _Wooer._ She would have me sing. _Doct._ You did so? _Woo._ No. _Doct._ 'Twas very ill done then, You should observe her ev'ry way. _Woo._ Alas I have no voice Sir, to confirm her that way. _Doct._ That's all one, if ye make a noise, If she intreat again, do any thing, Lie with her if she ask you. _Jail._ Hoa there Doctor. _Doct._ Yes, in the way of cure. _Jail._ But first, by your leave I' th' way of honesty. _Doct._ That's but a niceness, Nev'r cast your child away for honesty; Cure her first this way, then if she will be honest, She has the path before her. _Jail._ Thank ye Doctor. _Doct._ Pray bring her in And let's see how she is. _Jail._ I will, and tell her Her _Palamon_ staies for her: but Doctor, Methinks you are i' th' wrong still. [_Exit Jaylor._ _Doct._ Goe, goe: you Fathers are fine fools: her honesty? And we should give her physick till we find that: _Woo._ Why, do you think she is not honest, Sir? _Doct._ How old is she? _Woo._ She's eighteen. _Doct._ She may be, But that's all one, 'tis nothing to our purpose, What ev'r her Father saies, if you perceive Her Mood inclining that way that I spoke of _Videlicet, The way of flesh_, you have me. _Woo._ Yes very well Sir. _Doct._ Please her appetite And do it home, it cures her _ipso facto_, The melancholly humor that infects her. _Woo._ I am of your mind, _Doctor_.