Mal. Oh my good Lord, my Picture's done: but 'faith
It is not like; nay, this way Sir, the light
Strikes best upon it here.
Pio. Excellent wench. [Exit.
Alg. I am glad the danger's over. [Exit.
Vit. 'Tis wondrous like,
But that Art cannot counterfeit what Nature
Could make but once.
Mal. All's clear; another tune
You must hear from me now: Vitelli, thou'rt
A most perfidious and a perjur'd man,
As ever did usurp Nobility.
Vit. What meanst thou Mal?
Mal. Leave your betraying smiles,
And change the tunes of your inticing tongues
To penitential prayers; for I am great
In labour, even with anger, big with child
Of womans rage, bigger than when my womb
Was pregnant by thee: go seducer, flie
Out of the world, let me the last wretch be
Dishonored by thee: touch me not, I loath
My very heart, because thou lay'st there long;
A woman's well help'd up, that's confident
In e'er a glittering outside on you all:
Would I had honestly been match'd to some
Poor Countrey-swain, e'er known the vanity
Of Court: peace then had been my portion,
Nor had been cozen'd by an hours pomp
To be a whore unto my dying day.
Vit. Oh the uncomfortable waies such women have,
Their different speech and meaning, no assurance
In what they say or do: Dissemblers
Even in their prayers, as if the weeping Greek
That flatter'd Troy a-fire, had been their Adam;
Lyers, as if their mother had been made
Only of all the falshood of the man,
Dispos'd into that rib: Do I know this,
And more: nay, all that can concern this Sex,
With the true end of my creation?
Can I with rational discourse sometimes
Advance my spirit into Heaven, before
'T has shook hands with my body, and yet blindly
Suffer my filthy flesh to master it,
With sight of such fair frail beguiling objects?
When I am absent, easily I resolve
Ne'er more to entertain those strong desires
That triumph o'er me, even to actual sin;
Yet when I meet again those sorcerers eies,
Their beams my hardest resolutions thaw,
As if that cakes of Ice and July met,
And her sighs powerful as the violent North,
Like a light feather twirl me round about
And leave me in mine own low state again.
What ayl'st thou? prethee weep not: Oh, those tears
If they were true, and rightly spent, would raise
A flow'ry spring i'th' midst of January:
Celestial Ministers with Chrystal cups
Would stoop to save 'em for immortal drink:
But from this passion; why all this?
Mal. Do ye ask?
You are marrying: having made me unfit
For any man, you leave me fit for all:
Porters must be my burthens now, to live,
And fitting me your self for Carts, and Beadles,
You leave me to 'em: And who of all the world
But the virago, your great Arch-foes daughter?
But on: I care not, this poor rush: 'twill breed
An excellent Comedy: ha, ha: 't makes me laugh:
I cannot choose: the best is, some report
It is a match for fear, not love o' your side.
Vit. Why how the devil knows she, that I saw
This Lady? are all whores, piec'd with some witch?
I will be merry, 'faith 'tis true, sweet heart,
I am to marry?