_Dem_. Prethee,
No more of this, I cannot find her.

_Cel_. That shews as far beyond my wither'd beauty;
And will run mad to love ye too.

_Dem_. Do you fear me,
And do you think, besides this face, this beauty,
This heart, where all my hopes are lock'd--

_Cel_. I dare not:
No sure, I think ye honest; wondrous honest.
Pray do not frown, I'le swear ye are.

_Dem_. Ye may choose.

_Cel_. But how long will ye be away?

_Dem_. I know not.

_Cel_. I know you are angry now: pray look upon me:
I'le ask no more such questions.

_Dem_. The Drums beat,
I can no longer stay.

_Cel_. They do but call yet:
How fain you would leave my Company?

_Dem_. I wou'd not,