John. Let him, he cannot raise my Devil.
Fred. Prithee Peace.
Vec. Appear, appear,
And you soft Winds so clear,
That dance upon the leaves, and make them sing
Gentle Love-lays to the Spring,
Gilding all the Vales below,
With your Verdure as ye blow,
Raise these forms from under ground
With a soft and happy sound. [Soft Musick.
John. This is an honest Conjurer, and a pretty Poet;
I like his words well, there's no bumbast in 'em,
But do you think now he can cudgel up the Devil
With this short Staff of Verses?
Fred. Peace, the Spirits— [2 shapes of women passing by.
John. Nay, and they be no worse—
Vec. Do ye know these faces?
Duke. No.
Vec. Sit still upon your lives then, and mark what follows;
Away, away.
John. These Devils do not paint sure?
Have they no sweeter shapes in Hell?