Orian. Y'are yet too harsh, too dissonant,
There's no true musick in your words, my Lord.
Gond. What shall I give thee to be gone?
Here's ta, and tha wants lodging, take my house, 'tis big enough, 'tis thine own, 'twill hold five leacherous Lords, and their lackies without discovery: there's stoves and bathing tubs.
Orian. Dear Lord: y'are too wild.
Gond. Shalt have a Doctor too, thou shalt, 'bout six and twentie, 'tis a pleasing age; Or I can help thee to a handsome Usher: or if thou lack'st a page, I'll give thee one, preethee keep house, and leave me.
Oria. I doe confess I'm too easie, too much woman,
Not coy enough to take affection,
Yet I can frown and nip a passion,
Even in the bud: I can say
Men please their present heats; Then please to leave us.
I can hold off, and, by my Chymick power,
Draw Sonnets from the melting lovers brain;
Ayme's, and Elegies: yet to you my Lord
My Love, my better self, I put these off,
Doing that office, not befits our sex,
Entreat a man to love;
Are ye not yet relenting? ha'ye blood and Spirit
In those veins? ye are no image, though ye be as hard
As marble: sure ye have no liver, if ye had,
'Twould send a lively and desiring heat
To every member; Is not this miserable?
A thing so truely form'd, shapt out by Symetry,
Has all the organs that belong to man,
And working too, yet to shew all these
Like dead motions moving upon wyers?
Then good my Lord, leave off what you have been,
And freely be what you were first intended for, a man.
Gond. Thou art a precious peece of slie damnation,
I will be deaf, I will lock up my ears,
Tempt me not, I will not love; If I doe.
Oria. Then I'll hate you.
Gond. Let me be 'nointed with hony, and turn'd into the Sun,
To be stung to death with horse-flies,
Hear'st thou, thou breeder, here I'll sit,
And, in despight of thee, I will say nothing.
Oria. Let me with your fair patience, sit beside you.