_Casta._ When shall I pray again? (a Courtier) Or when I do, to what God? what new body And new face must I make me, with new manners? For I must be no more my self. Whose Mistriss Must I be first? with whose sin-offering season'd? And when I am grown so great and glorious With prostitution of my burning beauties, That great Lords kneel, and Princes beg for favours, Do you think I'll be your Daughter, a poor Gentlemans, Or know you for my father? _Enter_ Lavall. _Gent._ My best _Casta_. Oh my most virtuous child! Heaven reigns within thee; Take thine own choice, sweet child, and live a Saint still. The Lord _Lavall_, stand by wench. _Lav. Gabriella_, She cannot, nor she dares not make it known, My greatness crushes her, when e'er she offers: Why should I fear her then? _Gent._ Come, let's pass on wench. _Lav. Gentille_, come hither: who's that Gentlewoman? _Gent._ A child of mine, Sir, who observing custome, Is going to the Monastery to her Prayers. _Lav._ A fair one, a most sweet one; fitter far To beautifie a Court, than make a Votarist. Go on, fair Beauty, and in your Orizons Remember me: will ye, fair sweet? _Casta._ Most humbly. [_Exeunt._ _Lav._ An admirable Beauty: how it fires me! _Enter a Spirit._ But she's too full of grace, and I too wicked. I feel my wonted fit: Defend me, goodness. Oh! it grows colder still, and stiffer on me, My hair stands up, my sinews shake and shrink; Help me good Heaven, and good thoughts dwell within me. Oh get thee gone, thou evil evil spirit, Haunt me no more, I charge thee. _Spir._ Yes _Lavall_: Thou art my vassal, and the slave to mischief, I blast thee with new sin: pursue thy pleasure; _Casta_ is rare and sweet, a blowing Beauty; Set thy desires a fire, and never quench 'em Till thou enjoy'st her; make her all thy Heaven, And all thy joy, for she is all true happiness: Thou art powerful, use command; if that prevail not, Force her: I'll be thy friend. _Lav._ Oh help me, help me. _Spir._ Her virtue, like a spell, sinks me to darkness. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Gentille _and_ Casta. _Gent._ He's here still. How is't, noble Lord? me thinks, Sir, You look a little wildly. Is it that way? Is't her you stare on so? I have spy'd your fire, Sir, Bu[t] dare not stay the flaming. Come. _Lav._ Sweet [c]reature, Excellent Beauty, do me but the happiness To be your humblest servant. Oh fair eyes, Oh blessed, Blessed Sweetness, Divine Virgin!