GIN THE THIRD DANCE.]

CUP. But that shall not serve him.

MER. 'Tis like to do it, at this time. But Cupid is grown too
covetous, that will not spare one of a multitude.

CUP. One is more than a multitude.

MER. Arete's favour makes any one shot-proof against thee, Cupid.
I pray thee, light honey-bee, remember thou art not now in Adonis'
garden, but in Cynthia's presence, where thorns lie in garrison
about the roses. Soft, Cynthia speaks.

CYN. Ladies and gallants of our court, to end,
And give a timely period to our sports,
Let us conclude them, with declining night;
Our empire is but of the darker half.
And if you judge it any recompence
For your faire pains, t' have earn'd Diana's thanks,
Diana grants them, and bestows their crown
To gratify your acceptable zeal.
For you are they, that not, as some have done,
Do censure us, as too severe and sour,
But as, more rightly, gracious to the good;
Although we not deny, unto the proud,
Or the profane, perhaps indeed austere:
For so Actaeon, by presuming far,
Did, to our grief, incur a fatal doom;
And so, swoln Niobe, comparing more
Than he presumed, was trophaeed into stone.
But are we therefore judged too extreme?
Seems it no crime to enter sacred bowers,
And hallowed places, with impure aspect,
Most lewdly to pollute? Seems it no crime
To brave a deity? Let mortals learn
To make religion of offending heaven.
And not at all to censure powers divine.
To men this argument should stand for firm,
A goddess did it, therefore it was good:
We are not cruel, nor delight in blood.--
But what have serious repetitions
To do with revels, and the sports of court?
We not intend to sour your late delights
With harsh expostulation. Let it suffice
That we take notice, and can take revenge
Of these calumnious and lewd blasphemies.
For we are no less Cynthia than we were,
Nor is our power, but as ourself, the same:
Though we have now put on no tire of shine,
But mortal eyes undazzled may endure.
Years are beneath the spheres, and time makes weak
Things under heaven, not powers which govern heaven.
And though ourself be in ourself secure,
Yet let not mortals challenge to themselves
Immunity from thence. Lo, this is all:
Honour hath store of spleen, but wanteth gall.
Once more we cast the slumber of our thanks