To wash their Hemp, and spoil the Fry.

_God._ Thanks Virgin, I must down again,
Thy wound will put thee to no pain:
Wonder not so soon 'tis gone:
A holy hand was laid upon.

_Amo._ And I unhappy born to be,
Must follow him that flies from me.




_Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._


_Enter_ Perigot.

_Per._ She is untrue, unconstant, and unkind,
She's gone, she's gone, blow high thou North-west wind,
And raise the Sea to Mountains, let the Trees
That dare oppose thy raging fury, leese
Their firm foundation, creep into the Earth,
And shake the world, as at the monstrous birth
Of some new Prodigy, whilst I constant stand,
Holding this trustie Boar-spear in my hand,
And falling thus upon it.

_Enter_ Amaryllis, _running._