Hida. O, O!
Cleo. She's going, wretched wom[e]n that we are:
Look to her, and I'll pray the while.
Hero. Why Madam? [Shee kneels.
Cleo. Cupid, pardon what is past,
And forgive our sins at last,
Then we will be coy no more,
But thy Deity Adore,
Troths at fifteen we will plight,
And will tread a Dance [each] night.
In the fields, or by the Fire,
With the youths that have desire. (How does she yet?)
Cleo. Given Ear-rings we will wear,
Bracelets of our Lovers hair,
Which they on our Arms shall twist,
With their Names carv'd on our wrist:
All the money that we owe,
We in Tokens will bestow:
And learn to write, that when 'tis sent,
Onely our Loves know what it meant:
O then pardon what is past,
And forgive our Sins at last. (What, Mends she?)
Hero. Nothing, you do it not wantonly, you shou'd sing.
[Cleo. Why?
Hero. Leave, leave, 'tis now too late.
Shee is dead: Her last is breathed.]
Cleo. What shall we doe.