Clown. No, Sir; her winde instrument is out of tune.
Epi. Call, cal.
Clown. Do you heare, you low woman? hold not downe your head so for shame; creepe not thus into a corner, no honest woman loves to be fumbling thus in the darke. Hang her; she has no tongue.
Epi. Would twenty thousand of their sexe had none.
Clown. Foxe, foxe, come out of your hole.
An Angel ascends from the cave, singing.
Epi. Horrour! what's this?
Clown. Alas, I know not what my selfe am.
ANGEL SINGS.
Fly, darknesse, fly in spight of Caves;
Truth can thrust her armes through Graves.
No Tyrant shall confine
A white soule that's divine
And does more brightly shine
Than Moone or Sunne;
She lasts when they are done.