Buss. Why, then, your Prince of Spirits may be call'd
The Prince of lyers.
Mont. Holy Writ so calls him.
Buss. What! writ in bloud!
Mont. I, 'tis the ink of lovers.
Buss. O, 'tis a sacred witnesse of her love.100
So much elixer of her bloud as this,
Dropt in the lightest dame, would make her firme
As heat to fire; and, like to all the signes,
Commands the life confinde in all my veines.