Exeunt.
Cri. We shal haue sport to see them; come bright beauties,
The Sunne stoops low, and whispers in our eares,
To hasten on our Maske, let’s crowne this night,
With choise composed wreathes of sweet delight.
Exeunt.
Enter Terrill and Cælestine sadly, Sir Quintilian stirring and mingling a cup of wine.
Ter. O Night, that Dyes the Firmament in blacke,
And like a cloth of cloudes doth stretch thy limbes;
Vpon the windy Tenters of the Ayre:
O thou that hang’st vpon the backe of Day,
Like a long mourning gowne: thou that art made
Without an eye, because thou shouldst not see
A Louers Reuels: nor participate
The Bride-groomes heauen; ô heauen, to me a hell:
I haue a hell in heauen, a blessed cursse;
All other Brides-groomes long for Night, and taxe
The Day of lazie slouth; call Time a Cripple,
And say the houres limpe after him: but I
Wish Night for euer banisht from the skie,
Or that the Day would neuer sleepe: or Time,
Were in a swound; and all his little Houres,
Could neuer lift him vp with their poore powers.
But backward runnes the course of my delight;
The day hath turn’d his backe, and it is night;
This night will make vs odde; day made vs eeuen,
All else are damb’d in hel, but I in heauen.
Cæ. Let loose thy oath, so shall we still be eeuen.
Ter. Then am I damb’d in hell, and not in heauen.