Evan. Give his heat way, Madam,
And 'twill go out again, he may forget all. [Exeunt.
Enter Camillo, Cleanthes, and Menallo.
Cam. What have we to do with the times? we cannot cure 'em.
Let 'em go on, when they are swoln with Surfeits
They'l burst and stink, then all the world shall smell 'em.
Cle. A man may live a bawd, and be an honest man.
Men. Yes, and a wise man too, 'tis a vertuous calling.
Cam. To his own Wife especially, or to his Sister,
The nearer to his own bloud, still the honester;
There want such honest men, would we had more of 'em.
Men. To be a villain is no such rude matter.
Cam. No, if he be a neat one, and a perfect,
Art makes all excellent: what is it, Gentlemen,
In a good cause to kill a dozen Coxcombs,
That blunt rude fellows call good Patriots?
Nothing, nor ne'r look'd after.
Men. 'Tis e'en as much, as easie too, as honest, and as clear,
To ravish Matrons, and, deflower coy Wenches,
But here they are so willing, 'tis a complement.
Cle. To pull down Churches with pretension
To build 'em fairer, may be done with honour,
And all this time believe no gods.