Enter Lucina, Ardelia and Phorba.
Ardel. You still insist upon that Idol, Honour,
Can it renew your youth, can it add wealth,
That takes off wrinkles: can it draw mens eyes,
To gaze upon you in your age? can honour,
That truly is a Saint to none but Souldiers,
And look'd into, bears no reward but danger,
Leave you the most respected person living?
Or can the common kisses of a Husband,
(Which to a sprightly Lady is a labour)
Make ye almost Immortal? ye are cozen'd,
The honour of a woman is her praises;
The way to get these, to be seen, and sought too,
And not to bury such a happy sweetness
Under a smoaky roof.
Luci. I'le hear no more.
Phor. That white, and red, and all that blessed beauty,
Kept from the eyes, that make it so, is nothing;
Then you are rarely fair, when men proclaim it;
The Phenix, were she never seen, were doubted;
That most unvalued Horn the Unicorn
Bears to oppose the Huntsman, were it nothing
But tale, and meer tradition, would help no man;
But when the vertue's known, the honour's doubled:
Vertue is either lame, or not at all,
And love a Sacriledge, and not a Saint,
When it bars up the way to mens Petitions.
Ard. Nay ye shall love your Husband too; we come not
To make a Monster of ye.
Luc. Are ye women?
Ard. You'll find us so, and women you shall thank too,
If you have grace to make your use.
Luc. Fye on ye.
Phor. Alas poor bashful Lady, by my soul,
Had ye no other vertue, but your blushes,
And I a man, I should run mad for those:
How daintily they set her off, how sweetly!
Ard. Come Goddess, come, you move too near the earth,
It must not be, a better Orb stayes for you:
Here: be a Maid, and take 'em.