_Alb._ Ye have read me a fair Lecture, And put a spell upon my tongue for fayning. But how will you counsel now? _Amin._ Ye must study to forget me. _Alb._ How? _Amin._ Be patient. Be wise and patient, it conce[r]ns ye highly. Can ye lay by our loves? But why should I doubt it? Ye are a man, and man may shift affections, 'Tis held no sin. To come to the point, Ye must lose me; many and mighty reasons. _Alb._ Hear me _Aminta_, Have you a man that loves you too, that feeds ye, That sends ye liberty? Has this great Governess A noble son too, young, and apt to catch ye? Am I, because I am in bonds, and miserable, My health decay'd, my youth and strength half blasted, My fortune like my waining self, for this despis'd? Am I for this forsaken? a new love chosen, And my affections, like my fortunes, wanderers? Take heed of lying, you that chid me for it; And shew'd how deep a sin it was, and dangerous. Take heed, your self, you swore you lov'd me dearly; No few, nor little oathes you swore _Aminta_, Those seal'd with no small faith, I then assur'd my self. O seek no new wayes to cozen truth. _Amin._ I do not. By love it self I love thee, And ever must, nor can all deaths dissolve it. _Alb._ Why do you urge me thus then? _Amin._ For your safety, To preserve your life. _Alb._ My life, I do confess, is hers, She gives it, And let her take it back, I yield it. My loves intirely thine, none shall touch at it; None, my _Aminta_, none. _Amin._ Ye have made me happy, And now I know ye are mine. Fortune, I scorn thee. Goe to your rest, and I'll sit by ye; Whilst I have time I'll be your mate, and comfort ye, For only I am trusted: you shall want nothing, Not a liberty that I can steal ye. _Alb._ May we not celebrate our loves _Aminta_? And where our wishes cannot meet. _Amin._ You are wanton, But with cold kisses I'll allay that fever; Look for no more, and that in private too. Believe me, I shall blush else. But, let's consider, we are both lost else. _Alb._ Let's in, and prevent fate. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Crocale, Juletta, Tibalt, Master. _Tib._ You do well to ayr us, Ladies, we shall be musty else. What are your wise wills now? _Cro._ You are very crank still. _Tib._ As crank as a holy Fryer, fed with hail-stones. But do ye bring us out to bait, like Bulls? _Mast._ Or are you weary of the charge ye are at? Turn us abroad again, let's jog Ladies; We are gross, and course, unfit for your sweet pleasures. _Tib._ Knock off our shooes, and turn's to grass. _Cro._ You are determined Still to be stubborn then: it well becomes ye. _Tib._ An humour Lady that contents a prisoner. A sullen fit sometimes serves for a second course.