Sir Gr. A shrewd place by my faith, it may well break your voice,
It breaks many a mans back; come, set to your business.
SONG.
Fain would I wake you, Sweet, but fear
I should invite you to worse chear;
In your dreams you cannot fare
Meaner than Musick; no compare;
None of your slumbers are compil'd
Under the pleasure makes a Child;
Your day-delights, so well compact,
That what you think, turns all to act:
I'd wish my life no better play,
Your dream by night, your thought by day.
Wake gently, wake,
Part softly from your dreams;
The morning flies
To your fair eyes,
To take her special beams.
Sir Gr. I hear her up, here Master Voice,
Pay you the Instruments, save what you can,
Enter Neece above.
To keep you when you're crackt. [Exit Boy.
Neece. Who should this be?
That I'm so much beholding to, for sweetness?
Pray Heaven it happens right.
Sir Gr. Good morrow, Mistriss.
Neece. An ill day and a thousand come upon thee.
Sir Gr. 'Light, that's six hundred more than any
Almanack has.