Well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to
be answerable for me; I'll have thee hanged, if I miscarry.
_Set_. Fear not, my son.
_Lov_. Fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar
shape:--one of us two stinks extremely: Pr'ythee, do not come so near
me; I do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy
brimstone.
_Set_. Fear not, but follow me.
_Lov_. 'Faith, I have no great mind to't; I am somewhat godly at
present; but stay a month longer, and I'll be proud, and fitter for
thee. In the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some Dutchman;
an Hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell.
_Set_. Mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live;
step back, and thou art mine.
_Lorn_. So I am, however, first or last; but for once I'll trust
thee. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_The scene opens, and discovers CONSTANCE, and a Parson by her; she
habited like Fortune.
Enter again_.
_Set_. Take here the mighty queen of good and ill, Fortune; first
marry, then enjoy thy fill Of lawful pleasures; but depart ere morn;
Slip from her bed, or else thou shalt be torn Piecemeal by fiends;
thy blood caroused in bowls, And thy four quarters blown to the top of
Paul's.
_Lov_. By your favour, I'll never venture.
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