And Seas as vast and raging as her Lust,
That we might never meet—Oh perfect Woman!
I find there is no Safety in thy Sex;
No trusting to thy Innocence:
That being counterfeit, thy Beauty’s gone,
Dropt like a Rose o’er-blown;
And left thee nothing but a wither’d Root,
That never more can bloom.
Franc. Alas, I fear I have done ill in this. [Aside.
Silv. I now should hate her: but there yet remains