I would to heaven there were no war but here
To shoote love darts! each smile from this fayre Eye
May take an Army prisoners: let me give
My life up here unto these lipps, and yet
I shall, by the sweetnes of a kisse, take back
The same againe. Oh thou in whom alone
Vertue hath perfect figure, hide not day
In such a Cloud: what feare hath enterd here?
My life is twisted in a Thread with thine;
Were't not defenced, there could nothing come
To make this cheeke looke pale, which at your Eye
Will not fall dead before you.--

_Enter Buzzano_.

Sirra, let all your care and duty bee
Employed to cheere this Lady: pray, be merry.

_Buz_. Oh, sir, yonders such doings.

_Hen_. Hell on your bawling! not a sillable to affright her,
or I shall tune your instrument there.

_Buz_. Hele breake the head of my instrument!
Why, sir, weomen are not affraid to heare of doings.

_Hen_. Still jarring?

_Buz_. When the whole towne is altogether by th'eares you might give
me leave to jar a little my selfe:--I have done, sir.