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Yes, I do love her, and dare own it too; And will defend her from one so base and treacherous. Bel. Who dares deny thy Reasons? Friend. Sh'has made me take an Oath, to fight with thee; And every Wound my lucky Sword shou'd make, She bad me say, was sent thee from her Hate. Bel. Oh, I believe thee: prithee tell on, young Man, That I may die without the aid of Wounds. Friend.

Sir, I'm in earnest, you have gain'd that Heart, For which I have receiv'd so many wounds; Venturing for Trophies where none durst appear, To gain at my Return one single smile, Or that she would submit to hear my story: And when sh'has said, 'twas bravely done, Pisaro, I thought the Glory recompens'd the Toil; And sacrificed my Laurels at her feet, Like those who pay their first-fruits to the Gods, To beg a blessing on the following Crop: And never made her other signs of Love, Nor knew I that I had that easy flame, Till by her Eyes I found that she was mortal, And could love too, and that my Friend is you.

Hen. If you can be so simple to proclaime it, I can be impudent. Ele. Yet dar'st thou live? & doe I live to see Myselfe the shame of weomen? have I not Wept teares enough to drowne me? then let fire Enthrone it selfe within me & beget Prodigious Cometts, that with flaming haires May threaten danger to thee! Hen. Ele. Oh, helpe me out of hell! Buz. Sh'has bene at Barleybreake.