The Oracles of Love--

_Sce._ I would you had her,
With all her Oracles, and Miracles,
She were fitter for your turn.

_Ant._ Would I had, _Sceva_,
With all her faults too: let me alone to mend 'em,
O'that condition I made thee mine heir.

_Sce._ I had rather have your black horse, than your harlots.

_Dol._ _Cæsar_ writes _Sonnetts_ now, the sound of war
Is grown too boystrous for his mouth: he sighs too.

_Sce._ And learns to fiddle most melodiously,
And sings, 'twould make your ears prick up, to hear him Gent.
Shortly she'l make him spin: and 'tis thought
He will prove an admirable maker of Bonelace,
And what a rare gift will that be in a General!

_Ant._ I would he could abstain.

_Sce._ She is a witch sure,
And works upon him with some damn'd inchantment.

_Dol._ How cunning she will carry her behaviours,
And set her countenance in a thousand postures,
To catch her ends!