CRI. To your cost, sir. Which is the piece stands forth to be courted? O, are you she? [TO PHILAUTIA.] "Well, madam, or sweet lady, it is so, I do love you in some sort, do you conceive? and though I am no monsieur, nor no signior, and do want, as they say, logic and sophistry, and good words, to tell you why it is so; yet by this hand and by that candle it is so: and though I be no book-worm, nor one that deals by art, to give you rhetoric and causes, why it should be so, or make it good it is so? yet, d--n me, but I know it is so, and am assured it is so, and I and my sword shall make it appear it is so, and give you reason sufficient how it can be no otherwise but so--" HED. 'Slight, Anaides, you are mocked, and so we are all. MER. How now, signior! what, suffer yourself to be cozened of your courtship before your face? HED. This is plain confederacy to disgrace us: let's be gone, and plot some revenge. AMO. "When men disgraces share, The lesser is the care." CRI. Nay, stay, my dear Ambition, [TO HEDON.] I can do you over too. You that tell your mistress, her beauty is all composed of theft; her hair stole from Apollo's goldy-locks; her white and red, lilies and roses stolen out of paradise; her eyes two stars, pluck'd from the sky; her nose the gnomon of Love's dial, that tells you how the clock of your heart goes: and for her other parts, as you cannot reckon them, they are so many; so you cannot recount them, they are so manifest. Yours, if his own, unfortunate Hoyden, instead of Hedon. [A FLOURISH.] ASO. Sister, come away, I cannot endure them longer. [EXEUNT ALL BUT MERCURY AND CRITES.] MER. Go, Dors, and you, my madam Courting-stocks, Follow your scorned and derided mates; Tell to your guilty breasts, what mere gilt blocks You are, and how unworthy human states. CRI. Now, sacred God of Wit, if you can make Those, whom our sports tax in these apish graces, Kiss, like the fighting snakes, your peaceful rod, These times shall canonise you for a god. MER. Why, Crites, think you any noble spirit, Or any, worth the title of a man, Will be incensed to see the enchanted veils Of self-conceit, and servile flattery, Wrapt in so many folds by time and custom, Drawn from his wronged and bewitched eyes? Who sees not now their shape and nakedness, Is blinder than the son of earth, the mole; Crown'd with no more humanity, nor soul.