So please you Sir, he's gone to see the City,
And the new Platform, with some Gentlemen
Attending on him.

_King_. Is the Princess ready
To bring her prisoner out?

_Thra_. She waits your Grace.

_King_. Tell her we stay.

_Di_. King, you may be deceiv'd yet:
The head you aim at cost more setting on
Than to be lost so slightly: If it must off
Like a wild overflow, that soops before him
A golden Stack, and with it shakes down Bridges,
Cracks the strong hearts of _Pines_, whose Cable roots
Held out a thousand Storms, a thousand Thunders,
And so made mightier, takes whole Villages
Upon his back, and in that heat of pride,
Charges strong Towns, Towers, Castles, Palaces,
And layes them desolate: so shall thy head,
Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands
That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice,
In thy red ruines.

_Enter_ Phil. Are. _and_ Bell, _in a Robe and Garland_.

_King_. How now, what Mask is this?

_Bell_. Right Royal Sir, I should
Sing you an Epithalamium of these lovers,
But having lost my best ayres with my fortunes,
And wanting a celestial Harp to strike
This blessed union on; thus in glad story
I give you all. These two fair Cedar-branches,
The noblest of the Mountain, where they grew
Straightest and tallest, under whose still shades
The worthier beasts have made their layers, and slept
Free from the _Syrian_ Star, and the fell Thunder-stroke,
Free from the Clouds, when they were big with humour,
And delivered in thousand spouts, their issues to
the earth: O there was none but silent quiet there!
Till never pleas'd fortune shot up shrubs,
Base under brambles to divorce these branches;
And for a while they did so, and did raign
Over the Mountain, and choakt up his beauty
With Brakes, rude Thornes and Thistles, till thy Sun
Scorcht them even to the roots, and dried them there:
And now a gentle gale hath blown again