Fond Echo, thou profan'st the grace is done thee.
So idle worldlings merely made of voice,
Censure the powers above them. Come away,
Jove calls thee hence; and his will brooks no stay.

ECHO. O, stay: I have but one poor thought to clothe
In airy garments, and then, faith, I go.
Henceforth, thou treacherous and murdering spring,
Be ever call'd the FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE:
And with thy water let this curse remain,
As an inseparate plague, that who but taste
A drop thereof, may, with the instant touch,
Grow dotingly enamour'd on themselves.
Now, Hermes, I have finish'd.

MER. Then thy speech
Must here forsake thee, Echo, and thy voice,
As it was wont, rebound but the last words.
Farewell.

ECHO. [RETIRING.] Well.

MER. Now, Cupid, I am for you, and your mirth,
To make me light before I leave the earth.

ENTER AMORPHUS, HASTILY.

AMO. Dear spark of beauty, make not so fast away:

ECHO. Away.