_Syl._ You may, madam, Perhaps, believe that I in this use art, To make you dote upon me, by exposing My more than most rare features to your view: But I, as I have ever done, deal simply. Look not with too much contemplation on me; If you do, you are lost. _Cam._ Is 't possible? What philters or love-powders do you use, To force affection? I see nothing in Your person but I dare look on, yet keep My own poor heart still. _Syl._ You are warn'd--be arm'd; And do not lose the hope of such a husband, In being too soon enamour'd. _Cam._ Never fear it; Though your best taking part, your wealth, were trebled, I would not woo you. But since in your pity You please to give me caution, tell me what Temptations I must fly from. _Syl._ The first is, That you never hear me sing, for I'm a Syren: If you observe, when I warble, the dogs howl, As ravish'd with my ditties; and you will Run mad to hear me. _Cam._ I will stop my ears, And keep my little wits. _Syl._ Next, when I dance, And come aloft thus, [_capers_] cast not a sheep's eye Upon the quivering of my calf. _Cam._ Proceed, sir. _Syl._ Nor should your little ladyship be taken with My pretty spider-fingers, nor my eyes, That twinkle on both sides. _Cam._ Was there ever such A piece of motley[144] heard of! [_A knocking within._] Who's that? [_Exit_ CLARINDA.] You may spare The catalogue of my dangers. _Syl._ No, good madam; I have not told you half. _Cam._ Enough, good signior.-- _Re-enter_ CLARINDA. Who is 't? _Clar._ The brother of the king. _Syl._ Nay, start not. The brother of the king! is he no more? Were it the king himself, I'd give him leave To speak his mind to you, for I am not jealous; And, to assure your ladyship of so much, I'll usher him in, and, that done--hide myself, [_Aside, and exit._ _Cam._ Camiola, if ever, now be constant: This is, indeed, a suitor, whose sweet presence, Courtship, and loving language, would have stagger'd The chaste Penelope; and, to increase The wonder, did not modesty forbid it, I should ask that from him he sues to me for: And yet my reason, like a tyrant, tells me I must nor give nor take it. _Re-enter_ SYLLI _with_ BERTOLDO. _Syl._ I must tell you, You lose your labour. Yet you shall have my countenance To parley with her, and I'll take special care That none shall interrupt you. _Bert._ You are courteous. _Syl._ Come, wench, wilt thou hear wisdom? _Clar._ Yes, from you, sir. [_They walk aside._ _Bert._ If forcing this sweet favour from your hand, [_Kisses her hand._ Fair madam, argue me of too much boldness, When you are pleased to understand I take A parting kiss, if not excuse, at least 'Twill qualify the offence.