but take away a part of that My breast is full of, of that holy fire The Queene of Loves faire Altar holds not purer Nor more effectuall; and, sweet, if then You melt not into passion for my wounds, Effuse your Virgin vowes to chaine mine ears, Weepe on my necke and with your fervent sighes Infuse a soule of comfort into me; He break the Altar of the foolish God, Proclaime them guilty of Idolatry That sacrifice to Cytheraeas sonne.

And you your selfe, Your Princely father, and the Dukedomes honour, To chaine your liking to a groome so base.