_Sir Vau._ Call vpon God a mighty, and no Muses, your Muse I warrant is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing with your |2075| Muse now, therefore I pray marse, marse, marse, oundes your Moose? _Exeunt._ _Cri._ We shal haue sport to see them; come bright beauties, The Sunne stoops low, and whispers in our eares, To hasten on our Maske, let’s crowne this night, |2080| With choise composed wreathes of sweet delight. _ Exeunt._ _Enter_ Terrill _and_ Cælestine _sadly_, Sir Quintilian _stirring and mingling a cup of wine_. _Ter._ O Night, that Dyes the Firmament in blacke, |2085| And like a cloth of cloudes doth stretch thy limbes; Vpon the windy Tenters of the Ayre: O thou that hang’st vpon the backe of Day, Like a long mourning gowne: thou that art made Without an eye, because thou shouldst not see |2090| A Louers Reuels: nor participate The Bride-groomes heauen; ô heauen, to me a hell: I haue a hell in heauen, a blessed cursse; All other Brides-groomes long for Night, and taxe The Day of lazie slouth; call Time a Cripple, |2095| And say the houres limpe after him: but I Wish Night for euer banisht from the skie, Or that the Day would neuer sleepe: or Time, Were in a swound; and all his little Houres, Could neuer lift him vp with their poore powers. |2100| _Enter_ Cælestine. But backward runnes the course of my delight; The day hath turn’d his backe, and it is night; This night will make vs odde; day made vs eeuen, All else are damb’d in hel, but I in heauen. |2105| _Cæ._ Let loose thy oath, so shall we still be eeuen. _Ter._ Then am I damb’d in hell, and not in heauen. _Cæl._ Must I then goe? tis easie to say no, Must is the King himselfe, and I must goe; Shall I then goe? that word is thine; I shall, |2110| Is thy commaund: I goe because I shall; Will I then goe? I aske my selfe; ô ill, King, saies I must; you, I shall; I, I will. _Ter._ Had I not sworne. _Cæl._ Why didst thou sweare? _Ter._ The King |2115| Sat heauvy on my resolution, Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath. _Cæl._ An oath? why, what’s an oath? tis but the smoake, Of flame & bloud; the blister of the spirit, Which rizeth from the Steame of rage, the bubble |2120| That shootes vp to the tongue, and scaldes the voice, (For oathes are burning words) thou swor’st but one, Tis frozen long agoe: if one be numbred, What Countrimen are they? where doe they dwell, That speake naught else but oathes?