_Wit._ Hah, what desperate Fool art thou? [Draws. _Lod._ One that will see thee fairly damn’d, e’er yield his Interest up in _Isabella_--oh thou false Woman! [They fight out, _Isabella_, _Fanny_, and _Maundy_ run off. SCENE IX. _Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming from the farther end with Sir _Credulous_ on it, and several others playing on strange confused Instruments._ Sir _Cred._ This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil’s in’t, and I’ll ne’er trust Serenade more. [Come forward, and all play again. --Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou’d have most deliciously and melodiously sung, I’ll sing my self; look ye,--hum--hum.-- Sir _Credulous_ should have sung. _Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes, D’on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise; And from thy resplendent Window discover A Face that wou’d mortify any young Lover: For I, like great _Jove_ transformed, do wooe, And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe. A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl: For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit, And all the Night long he crys wo to wit. Then rise, my bright _Cloris_, and d’on on slip shoe: And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe._ --Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright appear, to talk obligingly:--perhaps the Song does not please her: you Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion? _1 Man._ Yes, Sir, Several, _Robin--Hark how the Waters fall, fall, fall!_ Sir _Cred._ How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting. _1 Man._ No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent Ballad that begins--_Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade!_ [Sings. Sir _Cred._ Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,--_Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade_,-- [Sings.] That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. [Vaulting. [They all play again. Enter _Roger_ and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir _Patient’s_ House, led on by _Abel_ a precise Clerk, all armed with odd Weapons. _Abel._ Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children of Iniquity. _Rog._ A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight. Sir _Cred._ Who’s there? _Rog._ There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name? _Abel._ Down with _Gog_ and _Magog_, there; there’s the rotten Bell weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock. _Rog._ Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him. [Beat Sir _Cred._