_Pas._ There you lie _Cupid_, As bad as _Mercury_: there is no handsomness, But has a wash of Pride and Luxury, And you go there too _Cupid._ Away dissembler, Thou tak'st the deeds part, which befools us all; Thy Arrow heads shoot out sinners: hence away, And after thee I'll send a powerful charm, Shall banish thee for ever. _Cup._ Never, never, I am too sure thine own. [_Exit._ Pas. Sings. _Hence all you vain Delights,_ _As short as are the nights,_ _Wherein you spend your folly,_ _There's nought in this life sweet,_ _If man were wise to see't_, _But only melancholly,_ _Oh sweetest melancholly._ _Welcome folded Arms, and fixed Eyes,_ _A sigh that piercing mortifies,_ _A look that's fastened to the ground,_ _A tongue chain'd up without a sound._ _Fountain heads, and pathless Groves,_ _Places which pale passion loves:_ _Moon-light walks, when all the Fowls_ _Are warmly hous'd, save Bats and Owls;_ _A mid-night Bell, a parting groan,_ _These are the sounds we feed upon;_ _Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,_ _Nothing's so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholly._ [_Exit._ _Enter at another door_ Lapet, _the_ Cupid_'s Brothers_ _watching his coming_. _1 Bro._ So, so, the Woodcock's ginn'd; Keep this door fast brother. _2 Bro._ I'll warrant this. _1 Bro._ I'll goe incense him instantly; I know the way to't. _2 Bro._ Will't not be too soon think you, And make two fits break into one? _1 Bro._ Pah, no, no; the tail of his melancholy Is always the head of his anger, and follows as close, As the Report follows the powder. _Lap._ This is the appointed place, and the hour struck, If I can get security for's truth, I'll never mind his honesty, poor worm, I durst lay him by my wife, which is a benefit Which many Masters ha' not: I shall ha' no Maid Now got with child, but what I get my self, And that's no small felicity: in most places Th'are got by th' Men, and put upon the Masters, Nor shall I be resisted when I strike, For he can hardly stand; these are great blessings. _Pas._ I want my food, deliver me a Varlet. [_Within._ _Lap._ How now, from whence comes that? _Pas._ I am allow'd a carkass to insult on; Where's the villain? _Lap._ He means not me I hope. _Pas._ My maintenance rascals; my bulk, my exhibition. _[L]ap._ Bless us all, What names are these? Would I were gone agen. _The passionate man enters in fury with a Truncheon._ He Sings.