_Thou Deity, swift winged Love,_ _Sometimes below, sometimes above,_ _Little in shape, but great in power,_ _Thou that mak'st a heart thy Tower,_ _And thy loop-holes Ladies eyes,_ _From whence thou strik'st the fond and wise._ _Did all the Shafts in thy fair Quiver_ _Stick fast in my ambitious Liver;_ _Yet thy power would I adore._ _And call upon thee to shoot more,_ _Shoot more, shoot more._ _Enter one like a_ Cupid, _offering to shoot at him_. _Pas._ I prethee hold though, sweet Celestial boy; I'm not requited yet with love enough, For the first Arrow that I have within me; And if thou be an equal Archer _Cupid_, Shoot this Lady, and twenty more for me. _La._ Me Sir? _1 Gent._ 'Tis nothing but device, fear it not Lady; You may be as good a Maid after that shaft, Madam, As e'er your mother was at twelve and a half: 'Tis like the boy that draws it, 'tas no sting yet. _Cup._ 'Tis like the miserable Maid that draws it--_Aside._ That sees no comfort yet, seeing him so passionate. _Pas._ Strike me the Duchess of _Valois_ in love with me, With all the speed thou canst, and two of her Women. _Cu._ You shall have more. [_Exit._ _Pas._ Tell 'em I tarry for 'em. _1 Gent._ Who would be angry with that walking trouble now? That hurts none but it self? _Sold._ I am better quieted. _Pas._ I'll have all women-kind struck in time for me After thirteen once: I see this _Cupid_ will not let me want, And let him spend his forty shafts an hour, They shall be all found from the Dukes Exchequer; He's come already. _Enter again the same_ Cupid, _two Brothers, six Women Maskers_, Cupid's _Bow bent all the way towards them, the first woman singing and playing, a Priest_. SONG. _Oh turn thy bow,_ _Thy power we feel and know,_ _Fair_ Cupid _turn away thy Bow:_ _They be those golden Arrows,_ _Bring Ladies all their sorrows,_ _And till there be more truth in men,_ _Never shoot at Maid agen._ _Pas._ What a felicity of whores are here! And all my Concubines struck bleeding new: A man can in his life time make but one woman, But he may make his fifty Queans a month. _Cu._ Have you remembred a Priest, honest brothers? _1 Bro._ Yes Sister, and this is the young Gentleman, Make you no question of our faithfulness. _2 Bro._ His growing shame, Sister, provokes our care: _Priest._ He must be taken in this fit of Love, Gentlemen. _1 Bro._ What else Sir, he shall do't. _2 Bro._ Enough. _1 Bro._ Be chearful wench. [_A dance._ Cupid _leading_.