_Lord._ And the same parson, that did the former execution, is still in the next chamber; what with candles, wine, and quidding, which he has taken in abundance, I think he will be able to wheedle two more of you into matrimony. _Mill._ Poor Sir Martin looks melancholy! I am half afraid he is in love. _Warn._ Not with the lady that took him for a wit, I hope. _Rose._ At least, Sir Martin can do more than you, Mr Warner; for he can make me a lady, which you cannot my mistress. _Sir Mart._ I have lost nothing but my man, and, in fine, I shall get another. _Mill._ You'll do very well, Sir Martin, for you'll never be your own man, I assure you. _Warn._ For my part, I had loved you before, if I had followed my inclination. _Mill._ But now I am afraid you begin of the latest, except your love can grow up, like a mushroom, at a night's warning. _Warn._ For that matter, never trouble yourself; I can love as fast as any man, when I am nigh possession; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick till it comes near the centre; he's an ill falconer, that will unhood before the quarry be in sight. Love's an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, But soon grows weary when the game's not near. [_Exeunt omnes._ [Footnote B: This song is translated from Voiture.] EPILOGUE. As country vicars, when the sermon's done, Run headlong to the benediction; Well knowing, though the better sort may stay, The vulgar rout will run unblest away: So we, when once our play is done, make haste With a short epilogue to close your taste. In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly; But, when the curtain's down, we peep, and see A jury of the wits, who still stay late, And in their club decree the poor play's fate; Their verdict back is to the boxes brought, Thence all the town pronounces it their thought. Thus, gallants, we, like Lilly, can foresee; But if you ask us what our doom will be, We by to-morrow will our fortune cast, As he tells all things when the year is past. THE TEMPEST; OR, THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. A COMEDY. THE TEMPEST.