Orph. _This Souldier loves, and fain wou'd dye to win,_ _Shall he goe on?_ Cha. _No 'tis too foul a sin._ _He must not come aboard: I dare not row,_ _Storms of despair, and guilty blood will blow._ Orph. _Shall time release him, say?_ Cha. _No, no, no, no._ _Nor time nor death can alter us, nor prayer;_ _My boat is destinie, and who then dare_ _But those appointed come aboard? Live still,_ _And love by reason, Mortal, not by will._ Orph. _And when thy Mistris shall close up thine eyes,_ Cha. _Then come aboard and pass,_ Orph. _Till when be wise._ Cha. _Till when be wise._ _Eumen._ How still he sits: I hope this Song has setled him. _1 Capt._ He bites his lip, and rowles his fiery eyes, yet I fear for all this-- _2 Capt._ _Stremon_ still apply to him. _Strem._ Give me more room, sweetly strike, divinely Such strains as old earth moves at. _Orph._ The power I have over both beast and plant, Thou man alone feelst miserable want. [_Musick._ Strike you rare Spirits that attend my will, And lose your savage wildness by my skill. _Enter a_ Mask _of_ Beasts. This Lion was a man of War that died, As thou wouldst do, to gild his Ladies pride: This Dog a fool that hung himself for love: This Ape with daily hugging of a glove, Forgot to eat and died. This goodly tree, An usher that still grew before his Ladie, Wither'd at root. This, for he could not wooe, A grumbling Lawyer: this pyed Bird a page, That melted out because he wanted age. Still these lye howling on the Stygian shore, O love no more, O love no more. [_Exit_ Memnon. _Eumen._ He steals off silently, as though he would sleep, No more, but all be near him, feed his fancie Good _Stremon_ still; this may lock up his follie. Yet Heaven knows I much fear him; away softly. [_Exeunt Captains._ _Fool._ Did I not doe most doggedly? _Strem._ Most rarelie. _Fool._ He's a brave man, when shall we dog again? _Boy._ Unty me first for Gods sake, _Fool._ Help the Boy; he's in a wood poor child: good hony _Stremon_ Let's have a bear-baiting; ye shall see me play The rarest for a single Dog: at head all; And if I do not win immortal glorie, Play Dog play Devil. _Strem._ Peace for this time. _Fool._ Prethee Let's sing him a black Santis, then let's all howl In our own beastly voices; tree keep your time, Untye there; bow, wow, wow. _Strem._ Away ye Asse, away. _Fool._ Why let us doe something To satisfie the Gentleman, he's mad; A Gentleman-like humour, and in fashion, And must have men as mad about him. _Strem._ Peace, And come in quicklie, 'tis ten to one else He'l find a staff to beat a dog; no more words, I'le get ye all imployment; soft, soft in all. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Chilax _and_ Cloe.