Guard. Oh falsest man, Ixion's plague fell on me,
Never by woman (such a masculine cloud)
So airy and so subtle was embrac'd.
Mir. By no cause in me, by my life dear Aunt.
Guard. I believe you, then help in my revenge,
And you shall do't, or lose my love for ever,
I'll have him quitted at his equal weapon,
Thou art young, follow him, bait his desires
With all the Engines of a womans wit,
Stretch modesty even to the highest pitch;
He cannot freeze at such a flaming beauty;
And when thou hast him by th' amorous gills,
Think on my vengeance, choak up his desires,
Then let his banquetings be Tantalisme,
Let thy disdain spurn the dissembler out;
Oh I should climb my Stars, and sit above,
To see him burn to ashes in his love.
Mir. This will be a strange taste, Aunt, and an
Unwilling labour, yet in your injunction
I am a servant to't.
Mir. Yes, let the success commend it self hereafter.
Guard. Effect it Girl, my substance is thy store,
Nothing but want of Will makes woman poor. [Exeunt.
Enter Sir Gregory, and Clown.
Sir Greg. Why Pompey, thou art not stark mad, art thou? Wilt thou not tell me how my Lady does?
Clow. Your Lady?