_Phil_. Why, yes, thou lovest him--therefore-- Nay, you shall drink it, tho ‘twere o’th’ _Stygian_ Lake. Take it--by Heaven, thoud’st pimp for him to my Mother-- Nay, and after that, give him another Sister. _Alon_. ‘Tis well you are my Prince. _Phil_. I’d rather be a Prince of Curs--come pledge me-- _Alon_. Well, Sir, I’ll give you way. [_Drinks_. _Phil_. So wou’dst thou any--though they trod on thee. So--nay, Prince Cardinal, tho it be not decent For one so sanctify’d to drink a Health; Yet ‘tis your Office both to damn and bless-- Come, drink and damn the Moor. _Men_. Sir, I’m for no carousing. _Phil_. I’m in an Humour now to be obey’d, And must not be deny’d--But see, the Moor _Enter_ Abdelazer, _gazes on them_. Just come to pledge at last--Page, fill again-- _Abd_. I’ll do you Reason, Prince, what’er it be. [_Gives him the Glass_. _Phil_. ‘Twas kindly said--Confusion to the Moor. _Abd_. Confusion to the Moor--if this vain Boy, See the next rising Sun. [_Aside_. _Phil_. Well done, my Lad. _King_. _Abdelazer_, you have been missing long, The publick Good takes up your whole Concern, But we shall shortly ease you of that Load-- Come, let’s have some Musick; _Ordonio_, did I not call for Musick? _Ord_. You did, Sir. _Abd_. _Roderigo!_ _Rod_. My gracious Lord-- [Roderigo _whispers to_ Abd. _Abd_. No more--the Prince observes us. _Phil_. There’s no good towards when you are whisp’ring. _Ord_. The Musick you commanded, Sir, is ready. SONG. Nymph. _Make haste_, Amintas, _come away, The Sun is up and will not stay; And oh how very short’s a Lover’s_ Day! _Make haste_, Amintas, _to this Grove, Beneath whose Shade so oft I’ve sat, And heard my dear lay’d Swain repeat, How much he_ Galatea _lov’d; Whilst all the listening Birds around, Sung to the Musick of the blessed Sound. _Make haste_, Amintas, _come away, The Sun is up and will not stay; And oh how very short’s a Lover’s Day_! Swain enters, with Shepherds and Shepherdesses, and Pipes. _I hear thy charming Voice, my Fair, And see, bright Nymph, thy Swain is here; Who his Devotions had much earlier paid, But that a Lamb of thine was stray’d; And I the little Wanderer have brought, That with one angry Look from thy fair Eyes, Thou may’st the little Fugitive chastise, Too great a Punishment for any Fault. Come_, Galatea, _haste away, The Sun is up and will not stay, And oh how very short’s a Lover’s Day_! [Dance. _King_. How likes _Florella_ this? _Flor_. Sir, all Delight’s so banish’d from my Soul, I’ve lost the Taste of every single Joy.