Warn. For that matter, never trouble yourself; I can love as fast as any man, when I am nigh pos session; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick till it comes near the centre; he's an ill falconer, that will unhood before the quarry be in sight. Love's an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, But soon grows weary when the game's not near. [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE. As country vicars, when the sermon's done, Well knowing, though the better sort may stay, So we, when once our play is done, make haste And in their club decree the poor play's fate; you ask us what our doom will be, |