to a restless Slavery;
But here and there at random roves,
Not fix'd to glittering Courts, or shady Groves_.

III.

_Then she that Constancy profess'd
Was but a well Dissembler at the best;
And that imaginary Sway
She feign'd to give, in seeming to obey,
Was but the height of prudent Art,
To deal with greater liberty her Heart_.

[After the Song _Elaria_ gives her Lute to _Mopsophil_.

_Ela_. This does not divert me;
Nor nothing will, till _Scaramouch_ return,
And bring me News of _Cinthio_.

_Mop_. Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the
Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more
strictly guarded than usual.

_Ela. Cinthio_ came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my
Father hearing, sallied out with his _Mirmidons_ upon him; and clashing
of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether _Cinthio_ were
discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by
_Scaramouch_ will occasion me soon Intelligence.

_Mop_. And see, Madam, where your trusty _Roger_ comes.

_Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping on all sides before he enters_.

You may advance, and fear none but your Friends.

_Scar_. Away, and keep the door.

_Ela_. Oh, dear _Scaramouch_! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy's?

_Scar_. Yes, yes. [_In heat_.

_Ela_. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don _Cinthio_?

_Scar_. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else?

_Ela_. Well--and how does he?

_Scar_. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be
a Pimp? [_Fanning himself with his Cap_.

_Ela_. Why, well he shou'd do.

_Scar_. So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be,--he has
got but one Wound, Madam.

_Ela_. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! 'tis not mortal.

_Scar_. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous.

_Ela_. I die with Fear, where is he wounded?

_Scar_. Why, Madam, he is run--quite through the Heart,--but the Man may
live, if I please.

_Ela_. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles.

_Scar_. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call'd a Fair
Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure
than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.

_Ela_. Is _Cinthio_ then not wounded?

_Scar_. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen
and unknown.

_Ela_. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it