CUP. Are my darts enchanted? is their vigour gone? is their virtue-- MER. What! Cupid turned jealous of himself? ha, ha, ha! CUP. Laughs Mercury? MER. Is Cupid angry? CUP. Hath he not cause, when his purpose is so deluded? MER. A rare comedy, it shall be entitled Cupid's? CUP. Do not scorn us Hermes. MER. Choler and Cupid are two fiery things; I scorn them not. But I see that come to pass which I presaged in the beginning. CUP. You cannot tell: perhaps the physic will not work so soon upon some as upon others. It may be the rest are not so resty. MER. "Ex ungue"; you know the old adage; as these so are the remainder. CUP. I'll try: this is the same shaft with which I wounded Argurion. [WAVES HIS ARROW AGAIN.] MER. Ay, but let me save you a labour, Cupid: there were certain bottles of water fetch'd, and drunk off since that time, by these gallants. CUP. Jove strike me into the earth! the Fountain of Self-love! MER. Nay faint not Cupid. CUP. I remember'd it not. MER. Faith, it was ominous to take the name of Anteros upon you; you know not what charm or enchantment lies in the word: you saw, I durst not venture upon any device in our presentment, but was content to be no other then a simple page. Your arrows' properties, (to keep decorum,) Cupid, are suited, it should seem, to the nature of him you personate. CUP. Indignity not to be borne! MER. Nay rather, an attempt to have been forborne. [THE SECOND DANCE ENDS.] CUP. How might I revenge myself on this insulting Mercury? there's Crites, his minion, he has not tasted of this water? [WAVES HIS ARROW AT CRITES.] It shall be so. Is Crites turn'd dotard on himself too? MER. That follows not, because the venom of your shafts cannot pierce him, Cupid. CUP. As though there were one antidote for these, and another for him? MER. As though there were not; or, as if one effect might not arise of diverse causes? What say you to Cynthia, Arete, Phronesis, Time, and others there? CUP. They are divine. MER. And Crites aspires to be so. [MUSIC; THEY BEGIN THE THIRD DANCE.] CUP. But that shall not serve him. MER. 'Tis like to do it, at this time. But Cupid is grown too covetous, that will not spare one of a multitude. CUP. One is more than a multitude. MER. Arete's favour makes any one shot-proof against thee, Cupid. I pray thee, light honey-bee, remember thou art not now in Adonis' garden, but in Cynthia's presence, where thorns lie in garrison about the roses. Soft, Cynthia speaks.