_Bayes._ Why, sir, my design is gilded truncheons, forc'd conceit, smooth verse and a rant; in fine, if this scene don't take, egad, I'll write no more. Come, come in, Mr.--a--nay, come in as many as you can. Gentlemen, I must desire you to remove a little, for I must fill the stage. _Smith._ Why fill the stage? _Bayes._ Oh, sir, because your heroic verse never sounds well but when the stage is full. SCENE II. _Enter_ PRINCE PRETTYMAN _and_ PRINCE VOLSCIUS. Nay, hold, hold; pray by your leave a little. Look you, sir, the drift of this scene is somewhat more than ordinary; for I make 'em both fall out because they are not in love with the same woman. _Smith._ Not in love? You mean, I suppose, because they are in love, Mr. Bayes? _Bayes._ No, sir; I say not in love; there's a new conceit for you. Now speak. _Pret._ Since fate, Prince Volscius, now has found the way For our so long'd-for meeting here this day, Lend thy attention to my grand concern. _Vols._ I gladly would that story from thee learn; But thou to love dost, Prettyman, incline; Yet love in thy breast is not love in mine. _Bayes._ Antithesis! thine and mine. _Pret._ Since love itself's the same, why should it be Diff'ring in you from what it is in me? _Bayes._ Reasoning! egad, I love reasoning in verse. _Vols._ Love takes, caméleon-like, a various dye From every plant on which itself doth lie. _Bayes._ Simile! _Pret._ Let not thy love the course of nature fright: Nature does most in harmony delight. _Vols._ How weak a deity would nature prove, Contending with the powerful god of love! _Bayes._ There's a great verse! _Vols._ If incense thou wilt offer at the shrine Of mighty Love, burn it to none but mine. Her rosy lips eternal sweets exhale; And her bright flames make all flames else look pale. _Bayes._ Egad, that is right. _Pret._ Perhaps dull incense may thy love suffice; But mine must be ador'd with sacrifice. All hearts turn ashes, which her eyes control: The body they consume, as well as soul. _Vols._ My love has yet a power more divine; Victims her altars burn not, but refine; Amidst the flames they ne'er give up the ghost, But, with her looks, revive still as they roast. In spite of pain and death they're kept alive; Her fiery eyes make 'em in fire survive. _Bayes._ That is as well, egad, as I can do. _Vols._ Let my Parthenope at length prevail. _Bayes._ Civil, egad. _Pret._ I'll sooner have a passion for a whale; In whose vast bulk, tho' store of oil doth lie, We find more shape, more beauty in a fly. _Smith._ That's uncivil, egad. _Bayes._ Yes; but as far-fetched a fancy, tho', egad, as e'er you saw. _Vols._ Soft, Prettyman, let not thy vain pretence Of perfect love defame love's excellence: Parthenope is, sure, as far above All other loves, as above all is Love.