Enter Clarissa.
With the next rising Sun.
Ment. A match. But here
Appears a Cynthia, that scorns to borrow
A beam of light from the great eye of Heaven,
She being her self all brightness; how I envy
Those amorous smiles, those kisses, but sure chaste ones
Which she vouchsafes her brother!
Claris. You are wanton:
Pray you think me not Biancha, leave I pray you;
My Mother will not sleep before she see you,
And since you know her tenderness, nay fondness;
In every circumstance that concerns your safety,
You are not equal to her.
Cesar. I must leave you; but will not fail to meet you.
Ment. Soft sleeps to you.
Within. Mariana: Cesario.
Claris. You are call'd again.
Cesar. Some Sons
Complain of too much rigor in their Mothers;
I of too much indulgence; you will follow.— [Exit.
Claris. You are her first care, therefore lead the way.