Chi. I offered that, that had she been but Mistris
Of as much spleen as Doves have, I had reach'd her;
A safe revenge of all that ever hates her,
The crying down for ever of all beauties
That may be thought come near her.
Pro. That was pretty.
Chi. I never knew that way fail, yet I'le tell ye
I offer'd her a gift beyond all yours,
That, that had made a Saint start, well consider'd,
The Law to be her creature, she to make it,
Her mouth to give it, every creature living
From her aspect, to draw their good or evil
Fix'd in 'em spight of Fortune; a new Nature
She should be called, and Mother of all ages,
Time should be hers, and what she did, lame vertue
Should bless to all posterities: her Air
Should give us life, her earth and water feed us.
And last, to none but to the Emperour,
(And then but when she pleas'd to have it so)
She should be held for mortal.
Lyc. And she heard you?
Chi. Yes, as a Sick man hears a noise, or he
That stands condemn'd his judgment, let me perish,
But if there can be vertue, if that name
Be any thing but name and empty title,
If it be so as fools have been pleas'd to feign it,
A power that can preserve us after ashes,
And make the names of men out-reckon ages,
This Woman has a God of vertue in her.
Bal. I would the Emperor were that God.
Chi. She has in her
All the contempt of glory and vain seeming
Of all the Stoicks, all the truth of Christians,
And all their Constancy: Modesty was made
When she was first intended: when she blushes
It is the holiest thing to look upon;
The purest temple of her sect, that ever
Made Nature a blest Founder.
Pro. Is there no way
To take this Phenix?
Lyc. None but in her ashes.
Chi. If she were fat, or any way inclining
To ease or pleasure, or affected glory,
Proud to be seen and worship'd, 'twere a venture;
But on my soul she is chaster than cold Camphire.