A King in Loue, is Steward to himselfe, And neuer scornes the office, my selfe buy, All glances from the Market of her eye. _Soft Musicke, chaire is set vnder a Canopie._ |2310| _Kin._ Sound Musicke, thou sweet suiter to the ayre, Now wooe the ayre agen, this is the houre, Writ in the Calender of time, this houre, Musicke shall spend, the next and next the Bride; Her tongue will read the Musicke-Lecture: Wat |2315| I loue thee Wat, because thou art not wise; Not deep-read in the volume of a man, Thou neuer sawst a thought, poore soule thou thinkst, The heart and tongue is cut out of one peece, But th’art deceau’d, the world hath a false light, |2320| Fooles thinke tis day, when wise men know tis night. _Enter Sir_ Quintilian. _Sir quint._ My Leige, they’re come, a maske of gallants. _King._ Now----the spirit of Loue vshers my bloud. _Sir quin._ They come. |2325| The Watch-word in a Maske is the bolde Drum. _Enter_ Blunt, Crispinus, Demetrius, Philocalia, Petula, Dicache, _all maskt, two and two with lights like maskers_: Cælestine _in a chaire_. _Ter._ All pleasures guard my King, I heere present, |2330| My oath vpon the knee of duety: knees Are made for Kings, they are the subiects Fees. _King._ Wat Terrill, th’art ill suited, ill made vp, In Sable collours, like a night peece dyed, Com’st thou the Prologue of a Maske in blacke; |2335| Thy body is ill shapt; a Bride-groome too Looke how the day is drest in Siluer cloth, Laide round about with golden Sunne-beames: so (As white as heauen) should a fresh Bride-groome goe. What? Cælestine the Bride, in the same taske? |2340| Nay then I see ther’s mistery in this maske, Prethee resolue me Wat? _Ter._ My gracious Lord, That part is hers, she actes it; onely I Present the Prologue, she the misterie. |2345| _Kin._ Come Bride, the Sceane of blushing entred first, Your cheekes are setled now, and past the worst; _Vnmasks her._ A mistery? oh none plaies heere but death, This is deaths motion, motionles? speake you, Flatter no longer; thou her Bride-groome; thou |2350| Her Father speake. _Sir quint._ Dead. _Ter._ Dead. _Kin._ How? _Sir quin._ Poyson’d. |2355| _King._ And poyson’d? What villaine durst blaspheme her beauties, or Prophane the cleare religion of her eyes?