_Enter_ Gabriella, _and_ Maria _above_. _And_ Laval, _Bride, States in solemnity as to marriage; and pass over_; viz. Duke, Marine, Longaville. _Mar._ I hear 'em come. _Gab._ Would I might never hear more. _Mar._ I told you still: but you were so incredulous. See, there they kiss. _Gab._ Adders be your embraces. The poison of a rotten heart, oh _Hellen_! Blast thee as I have been; just such a flattery, With that same cunning face, that smile upon't, Oh mark it _Marie_, mark it seriously, That Master smile caught me. _Mar._ There's the old Duke, and _Marine_ her Father. _Gab._ Oh! _Mar._ There _Longaville_-- The Ladies now. _Gab._ Oh, [I] am murder'd, _Marie_. Beast, most inconstant beast. _Mar._ There. _Gab._ There I am not; No more I am not there: Hear me, oh Heaven! And all you powers of Justice bow down to me; But you of pity dye. I am abus'd, She that depended on your Providence, She is abus'd: your honor is abus'd. That noble piece ye made, and call'd it man, Is turn'd to Devil: all the world's abus'd: Give me a womans Will, provok'd to mischief, A two-edg'd heart; my suffering thoughts to wild-fires, And my embraces to a timeless grave turn. _Mar._ Here I'll step in, for 'tis an act of merit. _Gab._ I am too big to utter more. _Mar._ Take time then. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Gentille _and_ Casta. _Gent._ This solitary life at home undoes thee, Obscures thy beauty first, which should prefer thee; Next fills thee full of sad thoughts, which thy years Must not arrive at yet, they choak thy sweetness; Follow the time, my Girl, and it will bring thee Even to the fellowship of the noblest women, _Hellen_ her self, to whom I would prefer thee, And under whom this poor and private carriage, Which I am only able yet to reach at, Being cast off, and all thy sweets at lustre, Will take thee as a fair friend, and prefer thee. _Casta._ Good Sir, be not so cruel as to seek To kill that sweet content y'have bred me to: Have I not here enough to thank Heaven for? The free air uncorrupted with new flattery. The water that I touch, unbrib'd with odours To make me sweet to others: the pure fire Not smothered up, and choak'd with lustful incense To make my bloud sweat; but burning clear and high, Tells me my mind must flame up so to Heaven. What should I do at Court, wear rich apparel? Methinks these are as warm: And for your state, Sir, Wealthy enough; Is it you would have me proud, And like a Pageant, stuck up for amazements? Teach not your child to tread that path, for fear (Sir) Your dry bones after death, groan in your grave The miseries that follow. _Gent._ Excellent _Casta_.