Jul. No more.
Ang. There's a new Tyre, wench; peace, thou art well enough.
Jul. What, has she musick?
Wom. Yes, for Heavens sake stay,
'Tis all she feeds upon.
Jul. Alas, poor soul.
Ang. Now will I pray devoutly, for there's need on't.
The SONG.
Away delights, go seek some other dwelling,
For I must dye:
Farewel false Love, thy tongue is ever telling
Lye after Lye.
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts,
Alas, for pity go,
And fire their hearts
That have been hard to thee, mine was not so.
Never again deluding Love shall know me,
For I will dye;
And all those griefs that think to over-grow me,
Shall be as I:
For ever will I sleep, while poor Maids cry,
Alas, for pity stay,
And let us dye
With thee, men cannot mock us in the day.