Rod. There be Trenches
Fitter and warmer for your years, and safer
Than where the bullet plaies.
Mar. Ther's it I doubt Sir.
Rod. You'll easily find that faith: But come, be liberal,
What kind of Woman, could you make best wars with?
Mar. They are all but heavy marches.
Rod. Fie Marckantonio,
Beauty in no more reverence?
Mar. In the Sex Sir,
I honor it, and next to honor, love it,
For there is only beauty; and that sweetness
That was first meant for modesty: sever it
And put it in one woman, it appears not,
'Tis of too rare a nature, she too gross
To mingle with it.
Rod. This is a meer heresie.
Mar[c]. Which makes 'em ever mending; for that gloss
That cozens us for beauty, is but bravery,
An outward shew of things well set, no more:
For heavenly beauty, is as heaven it self Sir,
Too excellent for object, and what is seen
Is but the vail then, airy clouds; grant this
It may be seen, 'tis but like stars in twinklings.
Rod. 'Twas no small study in their Libraries
Brought you to this experience: But what think ye
Of that fair red and white, which we call Beauty?
Mar. Why? 'tis our creature Sir, we give it 'em,
Because we like those colours, else 'tis certain
A blew face with a motley nose would do it;
And be as great a beauty, so we lov'd it;
That we cannot give, which is only beauty,
Is a fair Mind.