_Gos._ In this circle, Love,
Thou art as safe, as in a Tower of Brass;
Let such as do wrong, fear.

_Van._ I, that's good,
Let _Wolfort_ look to that.

_Gos._ Sir, here she stands,
Your Niece, and my beloved. One of these titles
She must apply to; if unto the last,
Not all the anger can be sent unto her,
In frown, or voyce, or other art, shall force her,
Had _Hercules_ a hand in't: Come, my Joy,
Say thou art mine, aloud Love, and profess it.

_Van._ Doe: and I drink to it.

_Gos._ Prethee say so, Love.

_Ger._ 'Twould take away the honour from my blushes:
Do not you play the tyrant, sweet: they speak it.

_Hem._ I thank you niece.

_Gos._ Sir, thank her for your life,
And fetch your sword within.

_Hem._ You insult too much
With your good fortune, Sir. [_Exeunt_ Gos. _and_ Ger.