_Pol._ Run quickly then, and prosperous be thy wishes! [_Exit_ PAGE. Here I'm alone, and fit for mischief; now To cheat this brother, will't be honest that? I heard the sign she ordered him to give. O for the art of Proteus, but to change The happy Polydore to blest Castalio! She's not so well acquainted with him yet, But I may fit her arms as well as he. Then when I'm happily possessed of more Than sense can think, all loosened into joy, To hear my disappointed brother come, And give the unregarded signal--oh, What a malicious pleasure will that be! "Just three soft strokes against the chamber-door: But speak not the least word; for if you should, 'Tis surely heard, and we are both betrayed." How I adore a mistress that contrives With care to lay the business of her joys! One that has wit to charm the very soul, And give a double relish to delight! Blest Heaven, assist me but in this dear hour, And my kind stars be but propitious now, Dispose of me hereafter as you please! Monimia! Monimia! [_Gives the sign._ _Flor._ [_At the window._] Who's there? _Pol._ 'Tis I. _Flor._ My Lord Castalio? _Pol._ The same. How does my love, my dear Monimia? _Flor._ Oh! She wonders much at your unkind delay; You've stayed so long, that at each little noise The wind but makes, she asks if you are coming. _Pol._ Tell her I'm here, and let the door be opened. [FLORELLA _retires_. Now boast, Castalio; triumph now, and tell Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss! [_The door is unbolted._ It opens: ha! what means my trembling flesh? Limbs, do your office and support me well; Bear me to her, then fail me if you can. [_Exit._ _Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ Page. _Page._ Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning; Pray let us hunt. _Cast._ Go, you're an idle prattler. I'll stay at home to-morrow: if your lord Thinks fit, he may command my hounds. Go, leave me; I must to bed. _Page._ I'll wait upon your lordship, If you think fit, and sing you to repose. _Cast._ No, my kind boy, the night is too far wasted; My senses too are quite disrobed of thought, And ready all with me to go to rest. Good-night: commend me to my brother. _Page._ Oh! you never heard the last new song I learnt; it is the finest, prettiest song indeed, of my lord and my lady you know who, that were caught together, you know where. My lord, indeed, it is. _Cast._ You must be whipped, youngster, if you get such songs as those are. What means this boy's impertinence to-night? _Page._ Why, what must I sing, pray, my dear lord? _Cast._ Psalms, child, psalms.