Ard. Madam, ye are so excellent in all,
And I must tell it you with admiration,
So true a joy ye have, so sweet a fear,
And when ye come to anger, 'tis so noble,
That for mine own part, I could still offend,
To hear you angry; women that want that,
And your way guided (else I count it nothing)
Are either Fools, or Cowards.
Phor. She were a Mistris for no private greatness,
Could she not frown a ravish'd kiss from anger,
And such an anger as this Lady learns us,
Stuck with such pleasing dangers. Gods (I ask ye)
Which of ye all could hold from?
Luc. I perceive ye,
Your own dark sins dwell with ye, and that price
You sell the chastity of modest wives at
Runs to diseases with your bones: I scorn ye,
And all the nets ye've pitcht to catch my vertues
Like Spiders Webs, I sweep away before me.
Go tell the Emperour, ye have met a woman,
That neither his own person, which is God-like,
The world he rules, nor what that world can purchase,
Nor all the glories subject to a Cæsar,
The honours that he offers for my body,
The hopes, gifts, everlasting flatteries,
Nor any thing that's his, and apt to tempt me,
No not to be the Mother of the Empire,
And Queen of all the holy fires he worships,
Can make a Whore of.
Ard. You mistake us Lady.
Luc. Yet tell him this has thus much weaken'd me,
That I have heard his Knaves, and you his Matrons,
Fit Nurses for his sins, which gods forgive me;
But ever to be leaning to his folly,
Or to be brought to love his lust, assure him,
And from her mouth, whose life shall make it certain,
I never can: I have a noble Husband,
Pray tell him that too, yet a noble name,
A Noble Family, and last a Conscience:
Thus much for your answer: For your selves,
Ye have liv'd the shame of women, dye the better. [Exit Luc.
Phor. What's now to do?
Ard. Ev'n as she said, to dye,
For there's no living here, and women thus,
I am sure for us two.
Phor. Nothing stick upon her?
Ard. We have lost a mass of mony; well Dame Vertue,
Yet ye may halt if good luck serve.
Phor. Worms take her,
She has almost spoil'd our trade.