_Merc._ 'Tis neither better nor worse, upon my conscience. He is weary of hunting in the spacious forest of a wife, and is following his game _incognito_ in some little purlieu here at Thebes: that's many an honest man's case on earth too, Jove help them! as indeed he does, to make them cuckolds. _Phoe._ But, if so, Mercury, then I, who am a poet, must indite his love-letter; and you, who are by trade a porter, must convey it. _Merc._ No more; he's coming down souse upon us, and hears as far as he can see too. He's plaguy hot upon the business, I know it by his hard driving. JUPITER _descends_. _Jup._ What, you are descanting upon my actions! Much good may do you with your politics: All subjects will be censuring their kings. Well, I confess I am in love; what then? _Phoe._ Some mortal, we presume, of Cadmus' blood; Some Theban beauty; some new Semele; Or some Europa. _Merc._ I'll say that for my father, he's constant to a handsome family; he knows when they have a good smack with them, and snuff's up incense so savourily when 'tis offered by a fair hand,---- _Jup._ Well, my familiar sons, this saucy carriage I have deserved; for he, who trusts a secret, Makes his own man his master. I read your thoughts; Therefore you may as safely speak as think. _Merc._ Mine was a very homely thought.--I was considering into what form your almightyship would be pleased to transform yourself to-night: whether you would fornicate in the shape of a bull, or a ram, or an eagle, or a swan; what bird or beast you would please to honour, by transgressing your own laws in his likeness; or, in short, whether you would recreate yourself in feathers, or in leather? _Phoe._ Any disguise to hide the king of gods. _Jup._ I know your malice, Phœbus; you would say, That, when a monarch sins, it should be secret, To keep exterior shew of sanctity, Maintain respect, and cover bad example: For kings and priests are in a manner bound, For reverence sake, to be close hypocrites. _Phoe._ But what necessitates you to this love, Which you confess a crime, and yet commit? For, to be secret makes not sin the less; 'Tis only hidden from the vulgar view; Maintains, indeed, the reverence due to princes, But not absolves the conscience from the crime. _Jup._ I love, because 'twas in the fates I should. _Phoe._ With reverence be it spoke, a bad excuse: Thus every wicked act, in heaven or earth, May make the same defence. But what is fate? Is it a blind contingence of events, Or sure necessity of causes linked, That must produce effects? Or is't a power, That orders all things by superior will, Foresees his work, and works in that foresight?