r the Ladies._

Wom. Gip. _And we for the Men._

_1. Gip._ To _Cael._ Lady, you have lost a Lover,
Cross my hand, I'le more discover.

_2. Gip._ To _Anto._ My Lord, I know you baseness scorn,
And would be loath to wear a Horn.

_1. Gip._ To _Eug._ Lady, some do speak you fair,
That hatred to your welfare bear.

_2. Gip._ To _Ger._ My Lord, you Love a handsom Lady,
She Loves you as well it may be.

1. Gip. sings. _Thus we seldom miss the matter,
Things past we can tell, by these Generals well,
And ne're stay to prove the truth of the latter._

All. _Things past, &c._

1. To _Cael._ You shall Live long and happily, Lady.

2. To _Anto._ My Lord, I can tell you, good Fortunes your Friend.

1. To _Eug._ You shall e're long play with your own Baby.

2. To _Ger._ Your Love my Lord, will have good end.

1. Gip. sings. _Thus we Live merrily, merrily, merrily,
And thus to our Dancing we sing;
Our Lands and our Livings
Lye in others believings,
When to all Men we tell the same thing:
And thus to our Dancing we sing.
Thus we_, &c.

[An Antique of Gipsies, and Exeunt.

_Anto._ By this we see that all the Worlds a Cheat,
Where truths and falshoods lye so intermixt,
And are so like each other, that 'tis hard
To find the difference; who would not think these People
A real pack of such as we call Gipsies.

_Ger._ Things perfectly alike are but the same;
And these were Gipsies, if we did not know
How to consider them the contrary;
So in Terrestial things there is not one
But takes its Form and Nature from our fancy;
Not its own being, and is what we do think it.

_Anto._ But truth is still it self.

_Ger._ No, not at all, as truth appears to us;
For oftentimes
That is a truth to me that's false to you,
So 'twould not be if it was truly true.

_Enter _Pedro_ and a Servant, with a Letter to _Antonio_._

_Serv._ My Lord, _Don John_ salutes you in that Letter.

_Cael._ How does my Couzen, Friend?

_Serv._ Madam, I fear he's drawing near his end.

_Cael._ 'Pray Heav'n divert it.

_Anto._ The Letter shews, that Death did guide his hand;
It only says, Oh Friend, come now or never.

_Ger._ How did his Sickness take him?

_Serv._ Chacing the Buck too hard; he hot with Labour,
Drunk of a cooling Spring too eagerly,
And that has given him pains, the Doctors say,
Will give him Death immediately.

_Cael._ Heav'n grant him help.

_Anto._ Return, and tell thy Lord, I'm at thy he