_Mask._ That will I, in the name of truth,--if this hard-bound lie would but come from me. [_Aside._ Madam, I must tell you it lies in my power to appease this tempest with one word. _Beat._ Would it were come once! _Mask._ Nay, sir, 'tis all one to me, if you turn me away upon't; I can hold no longer. _Theo._ What does the fellow mean? _Mask._ For all your noddings, and your mathematical grimaces--in short, madam, my master has been conversing with the planets; and from them has had the knowledge of your affairs. _Bel._ This rogue amazes me! _Mask._ I care not, sir, I am for truth; that will shame you, and all your devils: In short, madam, this master of mine, that stands before you, without a word to say for himself, so like an oaf, as I might say, with reverence to him---- _Bel._ The rascal makes me mad! _Mask._ Is the greatest astrologer in Christendom. _Theo._ Your master an astrologer? _Mask._ A most profound one. _Bel._ Why, you dog, you do not consider what an improbable lie this is; which, you know, I can never make good! Disgorge it, you cormorant! or I'll pinch your throat out.---- [_Takes him by the throat._ _Mask._ 'Tis all in vain, sir! you are, and shall be an astrologer, whatever I suffer; you know all things; see into all things; foretell all things; and if you pinch more truth out of me, I will confess you are a conjurer. _Bel._ How, sirrah! a conjurer? _Mask._ I mean, sir, the devil is in your fingers: Own it--you had best, sir, and do not provoke me farther. [_While he is speaking_, BELLAMY _stops his mouth by fits_.] What! did not I see you an hour ago turning over a great folio, with strange figures in it, and then muttering to yourself, like any poet; and then naming Theodosia, and then staring up in the sky, and then poring upon the ground; so that, betwixt God and the devil, madam, he came to know your love. _Bel._ Madam, if ever I knew the least term in astrology, I am the arrantest son of a whore breathing. _Beat._ O, sir, for that matter, you shall excuse my lady: Nay, hide your talents if you can, sir. _Theo._ The more you pretend ignorance, the more we are resolved to believe you skilful. _Bel._ You'll hold your tongue yet. [_To_ MASK. _Mask._ You shall never make me hold my tongue, except you conjure me to silence: What! did you not call me to look into a crystal, and there shewed me a fair garden, and a Spaniard stalking in his narrow breeches, and walking underneath a window? I should know him again amongst a thousand. _Beat._ Don Melchor, in my conscience, madam. _Bel._ This rogue will invent more stories of me, than e'er were fathered upon Lilly! _Mask._ Will you confess, then? do you think I'll stain my honour to swallow a lie for you? _Bel._ Well, a pox on you, I am an astrologer. _Beat._ O, are you so, sir?