De G. Ye say well; would he thought as well, and loved too.
He Marry? he'll be hanged first: he knows no more
What the conditions and the ties of Love are,
The honest purposes and grounds of Marriage,
Nor will know, nor be ever brought t' endeavour,
Than I do how to build a Church; he was ever
A loose and strong defier of all order,
His Loves are wanderers, they knock at each door,
And taste each dish, but are no residents:
Or say he may be brought to think of Marriage,
(As 'twill be no small labour) thy hopes are strangers.
I know there is a labour'd match, now follow'd,
(Now at this time, for which he was sent for home too)
Be not abus'd, Natolet has two fair Daughters,
And he must take his choice.
Or. Let him take freely;
For all this I despair not; my mind tells me
That I, and only I, must make him perfect;
And in that hope I rest.
De-Gar. Since y'are so confident,
Prosper your hope; I'll be no adversary;
Keep your self fair and right, he shall not wrong ye.
Or. When I forget my vertue, no man know me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Bellure, and Servants.
Mir. Welcome to Paris once more, Gentlemen;
We have had a merry and a lusty Ordinary,
And Wine, and good meat, and a bounsing Reckoning;
And let it go for once; 'Tis a good Physick,
Only the Wenches are not for my diet,
They are too lean and thin; their embraces brawn-faln.
Give me the plump Venetian, fat, and lusty,
That meets me soft and supple; smiles upon me,
As if a Cup of full Wine leapt to kiss me;
These slight things I affect not.
Pin. They are ill built;
Pin-buttockt, like your dainty Barbaries,
And weak i'th' pasterns; they'll endure no hardness.
Mir. There's nothing good, or handsom bred amongst us:
Till we are travel'd, and live abroad, we are Coxcombs:
Ye talk of France, a slight unseason'd Country,
Abundance of gross food, which makes us Block-heads:
We are fair set out indeed, and so are fore-horses:
Men say we are great Courtiers, men abuse us:
We are wise, and valiant too, non credo, Seignior:
Our Women the best Linguists, they are Parrats;
O' this side the Alpes they are nothing but meer Drolleries:
Ha, Roma la Santa, Italy for my money,
Their policies, their customs, their frugalities,
Their courtesies so open, yet so reserved too,
As when ye think y'are known best, ye are a stranger;
The very pick-teeth speak more man than we do,
And season of more salt.